


only your force is moving my feet

by subchesters



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Come Eating, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Dry Orgasm, Hair Kink, Hand Jobs, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Neck Kissing, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Milking, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard to do something, anything, with Noiz that’s pressed to the surface of Aoba’s back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from _Integrate_ by Christopher Norman. 
> 
> This first began when I was sitting in class working on some weather briefs and that goddamn HWD and _Love Me Like You Do_ by Ellie Goulding came on the radio we play in class and I just couldn't focus on anything but imagining intense NoiAo makeouts to that song in a kitchen, of all the places that could have popped into my brain and I was like, "I need to write about this now." 
> 
> Also, domestic!NoiAo is starting to become my kryptonite so I threw some of that in here.
> 
> This... dragged out a lot longer than I expected it to. I was just looking to write some 12, maybe 13k PWP and then more things popped up at some points in scenes where I was like, "what if this happened after this happened?" and it just turned into a monster. This fic took me on a journey, to be honest.
> 
> I had to split this up into two chapters, it was just too long to post as one large piece.
> 
> Self-bated, all mistakes are mine, it's the usual routine.

The scene is a repeated image of domesticity, where everything is a spitting image of young love and warm hues of light that minces in flat strips beyond the blinds positioned in front of the windows.

It’s hard to do something, anything, with Noiz that’s pressed to the surface of Aoba’s back.

Noiz stays there, presses his face into Aoba’s shoulder, noses at the exposed skin, breathes warm against the scent of faint body wash that lingers, trails his nose to Aoba’s hairline, paying attention to the trembles that flow under his hands.

Noiz is content to stay like this, the heat of Aoba’s body that imposes through his clothes and smears against the underside of his hands with heat and feeling and sensation that he’s never done with indulging himself with. Where his hands rest on Aoba’s waist, he presses his thumbs against the material and rubs small circles, a soothing contact Noiz has found he enjoys.

Aoba shifts under him, trying to move about the kitchen with Noiz molded to his back, trying to stop the huffs of annoyed breaths that scratch against the inside of his throat, trying to cause enough irritation to escape out his mouth, but Aoba knows that he can’t shake Noiz, he can’t really muster enough energy to even begin to extract his limbs from Noiz’s embrace which causes a furrow of his brow at how contradictory his body and mind are--isn't he supposed to _want_ Noiz off his back?

Noiz doesn’t remove his face from Aoba’s shoulder, content to feel the heat, the softness of skin, the angle and slope of it pressed against his face, the muted scent of all things Noiz has come to enjoy, whether or not he can place their scent or why they're a residue left on the older man’s skin. Nonetheless, it’s the little things, the smallest of details that always catch his attention and he has to explore them, has to fit himself inside those spaces where he can feel them, know them, acquaint himself with them.

Aoba moves, Noiz mimicking the movement with his feet, still pressed against his back, trying to reach over to grasp at something Noiz isn’t paying attention to, doesn’t really care what Aoba does as long as Noiz can stay in this position. He knows it must be irritating for Aoba, his movements hindered by Noiz’s developed need to stay close to Aoba, but really, Noiz doesn’t really care, he doesn’t really acknowledge anything outside his need for close contact.

Noiz moves his hands, unwinds them from Aoba’s waist until they’re parallel, makes a slow ascent up Aoba’s sides, takes in the feeling of rumpled fabric under his palms, the softness of clothes against his palms, the smooth texture of it, all these little wonders he’d never consider, never thought of outside the cool numbness interloping at the ends of his nerves. Sometimes, it stops him, it keeps him rooted in a spot with calcified limbs and an inability to pull away because there’s too much curious fascination with feeling that’s supposed to be insignificant and small, it shouldn’t mean _anything_ , and it’s not supposed to be something Noiz is continuously fascinated by.

The blonde-haired man continues his curious movements across the clothes that outline Aoba’s frame, noting the contours of Aoba’s body, the slant of which his sides slope into his stomach, the curve of Aoba’s chest, the angles that come to fruition under the surface of the skin that’s presented under the clothes that Noiz continues to touch.

Aoba shifts, craning his neck, his nose coming into contact with Noiz’s hair and there are words that gather at the end of his tongue ready to release themselves from his mouth, but they’re hard to let go, not when the blonde-haired man begins to press his mouth against his neck, heat blowing against his skin, and a small, wet suction against the surface as it’s pulled into Noiz’s mouth, teeth an airy contact against his skin, rolling the ensnared flesh between his teeth, tongues at it in an attempt to soothe whatever pain that may have been inflicted.

“Noiz,” Aoba tries in this voice that should be string with annoyance, with reprimanding that he’s handling a situation with ease but that name sliding off his tongue is a shaky rhythm, trying to coax his body to move forward, disconnect the touch that Noiz has over his body, but Noiz moves with him, a fluid motion that keeps him in time with Aoba’s own movement, “come on, I’m trying to do something here.”

Noiz barely acknowledges the sounds Aoba’s throat produces, all of it colliding against his eardrums to bounce back and leak out his ears, letting all that useless sound and words of non-importance hit the ground to collect around his feet, unwilling to let himself lend a hand to those fallen sounds. Noiz continues to move his hands, graze against the outside, working his way up Aoba’s torso all the while he connects his tongue to Aoba’s skin, drags a flat trail along the skin, languid and unhurried in its path to Aoba’s ear, flourishing with his teeth catching the edge of Aoba’s ear.

It’s impossible for Noiz to stand here pressed against Aoba’s body with all this heat and movement and sounds that he can potentially extract from Aoba’s body, to miss an opportunity like that isn’t something Noiz wants to think about. He did have an intention: to enjoy the contact that his body craves, to relish in the softness that lies just under his body, and really, it wasn’t supposed to be anything sexual springing from this situation—there’s nothing but words of small print and faint traces of inky smells and some voice in the distance somewhere in front of him that lets words of numbers, and board meetings, and sales that fall to the floor in front of his feet, and Noiz just wants to stop thinking about that, he wants to be done with the residue of work that clings to his skin all the way home.

He’s just glad to forget himself inside the heat of the older man’s body, crawl inside and make a space for himself, one that he knows Aoba would let him, would give him no resistance and let him rest his weary body there.

Aoba might be slipping outside the confines of his mind, might be losing the grip that he’s been trying to maintain since Noiz found solace against his back, and really, he’s trying, he’s trying with all he can to not give into the heat that tries to interlope against his senses, that ever-increasingly envelops his being in this warm layer of feeling that he wants to push against, consume him, but he’s not ready to let go, he’s not ready to let the all-consuming warmth of all things that provide comfort and sensuality and safeness override his mind and body and leave him quivering against the backdrop that is Noiz’s body.

Aoba takes a chance and tries to crane his body, move in Noiz’s embrace to face the blonde, but the grip tightens, Noiz keeps Aoba there, placed inside the embrace his arms have. He continues to lick at Aoba’s neck, creates spit-slickened trails along the exposed skin, down Aoba’s neck, tongues at the surface in hard swipes when he feels Aoba’s attention isn’t where it should be, all the while his arms bend at the elbow to rest on Aoba’s chest, palms pressed flat, moving in circular motions across the fabric of Aoba’s shirt.

Aoba’s breath stutters inside his throat, doesn’t quite make it passed his tongue without calming down enough to be considered like he’s not becoming affected by Noiz’s touches, the gentle way in which his ever-increasing exploration of the blue-haired man’s body that causes Aoba to want to lean into it, to let Noiz coast along the outside of his conscious until he eases so delicately inside.

He tries again, “come on, Noiz, I’m trying—” but his voice dissipates on the back of his tongue, tasting the ruins of them settled along his tongue when one of Noiz’s hands slip under the top of the apron he wears and finds one of his nipples, palm skating across it.

What about lunch, what about the food that Aoba is trying to make, what about _anything_ that’s not Noiz’s touch, that’s not creating a wasteland of heat inside his body to leave him gasping inside his skin with that crescendo of white noise that winds around his ears—he needs to get a handle on himself, his body, tell Noiz that he has other things to do.

However, those things become less important with the way Noiz is lavishing attention to his skin, with teeth pressed against his skin, a tongue that waxes affection across his neck, with warm breath that collects against the surface of his nerves and chars everything, and Aoba attempts to close off his throat, stop all those sounds that well in his lungs, spilling into his throat with enough leakage that his throat must be expanding beyond its breaking point and surely, it’s going to split with how much builds there, but Aoba won’t let it escape.

If he acknowledges it, surely it’ll tell him just how fast he’s prone to react to Noiz’s touches and caresses and gentle press of his hands against Aoba’s body.

“Don’t care,” is all that Noiz offers, his voice below Aoba’s ear, breath hot as it slips against his ear, and Aoba tries to resist his body’s reaction it, that voice that becomes gravel-like, thickened with desire, hands stopping their exploration of Aoba’s body to move upward, against the fabric of Aoba’s shirt, positioning them to where he can get his both of his hands and fingers under the apron and directly over Aoba’s nipples. His palms settle heavily against the clothing over Aoba's skin, pushing down while the blonde’s pointer fingers press down the shirt-covered nipples.

Aoba’s lungs expand faster than he can catch them, mimics his body’s need for oxygen his blood swiftly demands for the expanding desire that robs him of it, and each intake of breath isn’t enough, it can’t be enough, not with how his body is winding, coiling, all under the small touches Noiz gives his body.

“Missed you so much today,” is smeared messily against his skin, thickened with heat and thirst, and Noiz doesn’t so much as say it as he pastes it against Aoba’s skin, breathes it into the base of Aoba’s hairline, his fingers emphasizing each word, pressing them down against Aoba’s nipples. He continues with, "thought about nothing but you,” while his teeth skate against the outer shell of the blue-haired man’s ear, grazing his teeth against it, presses his tongue along the outline, pulling back before he takes the lobe between his lips, a light suction accompanying.

It makes it harder to breathe, to think passed the sounds of desire that collect inside his ears and when his throat becomes a wasteland of fallen words and sounds that grate against his throat in all these attempts to escape and Aoba tries to resist, he tries to do everything in this meager power he possesses to stop himself from giving into the heat that cascades down his spine.

Noiz is persistent, he’s too headstrong to know when to stop, and maybe that’s something Aoba likes, maybe within the darkened corners of his mind where there’s too little light for him to see and evaluate this outwardly desire. Perhaps it’s good he can’t think about it, doesn’t really want to breach the subject in these less known desires and craving his body possesses because there will be too much fretting, too much over-thinking, too much of everything that’ll send Aoba into some kind of panic with the thoughts collapsing against his head and too much pressure over whether or not he’s some kind of pervert for enjoying things less known.

Noiz pushes down harder, taken the skin of Aoba’s neck between his teeth again, tongues it in a remedy when he releases just to seal his lips over it, knowing that he’s drawing blood to the surface, blemishing the skin, marring the pale surface with proof of his existence against it. It’s too tempting to leave traces behind, it’s hard for Noiz to resist leaving his imprint—he knows he can and he wants to; he wants for Aoba to not protest them and think about the outside, anything far beyond the presence of his teeth against his skin and fingers that are insistent against his skin.

If he works fast enough, he can possibly achieve this.

“Kept thinking about you,” is a hot ghost of breath and sensation against Aoba’s neck, drips down his skin, coats his skin in this waxy desire, “was supposed to be working on reports about last month's export sales,” and Noiz’s pelvis presses against Aoba’s, a leisure grind against the denim in front of it, “I didn’t care about it,” and his mouth makes a descent to Aoba’s shoulder, tongue trailing along it, open-mouthed, “didn’t want to think about anything but you.”

Aoba’s drowning inside his skin, with the heat that sinks right into his pores, with the words that paste over his skin to block the heat that Aoba’s body produces, prevent it from escaping, all the while Noiz continues to speak words that flow into some kind of sound that all involve the buildup of desire and passion and all things considered as sensuality.

Aoba tries to get Noiz’s name out but can’t, not when his throat chokes around it and his tongue is left with nothing to speak. His fingers grip at the edge of the counter, his knees are increasingly unsteady, his lungs become too needy, and Noiz continues to be a wall of heat behind him. Aoba tries again, Noiz’s name sounding too warbled, too disfigured when it escapes his throat and Noiz shudders behind him, absorbing it, reveling in the disfigured sound that it becomes.

Noiz’s fingers begins to trail away from Aoba’s nipples, his hands turning until his fingers point downward, his palms still settled in their places before they move downward, fingers spread as they descend, stopping as the tips of his fingers reach to the edge of Aoba’s shirt before shifting, wedging between the shirt and Aoba’s skin.

Again, there’s that fascination of the small things, with the heat that Aoba’s body emits, and Noiz hasn’t gotten enough information on fulfilling his curiosity, his interest in these things that shouldn’t be bothering him, that should have passed ever since he could drink his fill of Aoba’s body at any moment. However, he can’t—he can’t seem to get over his need to constantly explore the little things that condense to create the older man’s body that writhes against him in this moment.

He spends too much time admiring how this small concept of body heat works against the pads of his fingers that it gives Aoba time to recover, to fall back inside his mind and take awareness back. He pulls away, turning around to face Noiz, ready with some kind of scolding noise that rolls on the flat of his tongue, and the taste is awkward, not completely developed but Aoba doesn’t care, he has to do something to tell Noiz that this isn’t supposed to happen in the kitchen and where Aoba is trying to make _something_ —

It’s hard to have something prepared when trying to act responsible when the face of temptation is placed before Aoba, when his eyes find Noiz’s appearance situated in front of him and whatever he had that sat on the end of his tongue splinters because it hits him too quickly and just how much he hasn’t seen Noiz this week collapses against his mind in a screen of smoke and debris.

Aoba knows it’s Noiz’s job, he know just how important Noiz’s job is, but it still doesn’t make it any easier, it still doesn’t make it seem like it should be important, but Aoba knows he can’t fight it, his qualms are second nature to its precedence.

However, Noiz’s confession of leaving work has finally pierced his awareness, and he words, “Noiz, you can’t just leave in the middle of working,” and it’s now dawning on him that Noiz has left work, he’s dropped everything because of some desperate desire to see Aoba that his mind has continued to chant repeatedly (that fills him with a kind of joy, a warmth in his chest that Noiz has been desperate to see him, and he should be upset that Noiz is neglecting work, he should be reprimanding Noiz for doing something so irresponsible but he can’t, his lungs can’t find the air for it), so he continues with, “what if something important happened and you’re not there for it?”

Noiz doesn’t look like he’s contemplating his decision to leave work seriously, or that he’s left an entire company hanging for some unspoken amount of time in the midst of his need to come home to Aoba, and sure, Noiz is aware that Aoba is right but the point Aoba makes is left outside his mind because in this moment of time, Noiz could care less, Noiz can’t find the effort to feel bad.

“I’ve left it up to a few secretaries,” and the way he says it at ease, like how he hasn’t left an entire company hanging for some unidentified amount of time, Noiz says it without a care, like he’s not feeling tense and wary about it, and Aoba frowns, his lips twist disapprovingly.

“Noiz—”

“It doesn’t matter,” and Noiz is just so casual about it, doesn’t really consider it, “they know what to do,” and he steps forward, drawn to the need to continue touching Aoba’s body, feel the heat of it pressed against his fingers, and his body answers it through raising his hands, outstretched toward the blue-haired male, “they’re competent enough to handle it,” and Noiz comes closer, moving until he’s got Aoba pressed against the kitchen counter.

Aoba expects Noiz to move in for a kiss, distract him from the very real situation of leaving his work, and he moves his head, turns it to the side but Noiz doesn’t go for his mouth, doesn’t even go near his face, but instead presses himself against Aoba, his arms moving up his body and around, interlocking around Aoba’s torso while his forehead fits between the space of his shoulder and neck.

Aoba is surprised at the contact, expecting it differently, and it’s becoming harder to be upset and holding onto it becomes even more difficult as it becomes water through his fingers to splatter on the ground and collect at his feet below, and he lets Noiz continue with this contact, a little unsure how to navigate through this.

“Just wanted to see you,” is warm against Aoba’s neck, Noiz’s breathy words a balm against his skin, “I haven’t seen you all week and I just wanted to get away from it to see you,” and the blonde’s arms tighten around Aoba’s body. Aoba’s reaction to these words are predictable—there’s heat that ascends Aoba’s spine, fills the spaces between his vertebrae, all the while it collects into the pores of Aoba’s face with too much runoff that sits on the surface of his skin.

He wants to tell Noiz not to be so flippant about leaving his very real responsibilities for a temporary satisfaction, that he shouldn't be saying words like that, how it’s too shaded in with romanticism and the undertones of too warm and sappy confessions, and it’s not the direction Aoba is too willing to go, as though all this young love and affection and romantic musings are too much for his body, as if his continuously ill-timed embarrassment will feed from his reaction and make an appearance.

And now that Aoba is thinking too far into these words, his embarrassment makes itself known with the kindling of his face and really, what did he expect by thinking about it?

But he sighs, allowing himself to wrap his arms around Noiz, and, “you can’t just leave work and do what you want,” and what should Aoba expect of Noiz’s spontaneous personality, where thinking about something comes second nature to his desire to fulfill his curiosity. He should be used to it, he should be used to a lot of things about Noiz but it continues unravel in different ways that Aoba can’t help but think otherwise to the point where it catches him off guard.

Noiz makes a motion with his shoulders to show his stance on these words Aoba emits, turning his head against the space he’s provided, breathes deep, lets his breath caress Aoba’s skin, “don’t really care,” and Aoba shouldn’t expect differently, he shouldn’t think differently.

Noiz pulls back, levels his eyes with Aoba’s face, a portion of him regretting the missed heat and contact and the shuffling of his body into a different angle. He wants to fit himself back in the valley of Aoba’s neck, rest there until he’s had his fill of this one safe place in the world.

But there are more important things to be drawing attention to, with the close proximity he is to Aoba’s body, the collection of muscle and soft skin and everything Aoba just under his hands, at his disposal, and it’s such a wonder that he’s allowed to have them integrated into his life at such an integral moment and way that it’s so fucking unbelievable.

His eyes rest on the contours of Aoba’s face; sweeps across the surface in a gaze that holds a kind of physical touch, and he allows his eyes to press against Aoba’s skin like how he would touch it, smooth and gentle and full of this affection, and soft touches. He focuses so much on Aoba’s face; he finds the small things, the indiscriminate details that shouldn’t make sense with how much his indulgent curiosity finds them to be interesting, but he’s so focused on allowing himself to look at Aoba’s body, to really look at everything he brushes over on a too regular basis, it causes Aoba to look away, that all-familiar flushed irritation that spreads through his nerves.

“What’s that look for?” and it’s nearly mumbled, each word with a dusting undertone of soft shyness.

Noiz loves that tone of voice, these little nuances of Aoba’s that he can’t figure out why he loves them, they exist in a realm he can’t quite figure out the reason for its appearance, but Noiz is content to not lose its effect on him. Aoba doesn’t understand Noiz’s interest in his expressions, in his reaction to the notions Noiz expresses, but he’s given up on trying to understand just why Noiz takes a kind of solace in them.

“At you, obviously,” and it’s much softer, more calmer than Aoba was expecting (he’s not sure what he’s expecting or even why he’s expecting anything) and as much as Aoba wishes to pull enough confidence from the reserves of his body, he finds it unsurprisingly lacking, the wells long ago having dried up, and it’s not as confident as he wants it to be, the words, “don’t do that,” a mere warble on his tongue, the taste of it collected at the end of his tongue too weak and forgettable.

“But why?” and it’s a simple question, a simple push from Noiz as he leans forward, pauses as his face hovers mere moments from Aoba’s own, and as much as Aoba wants to pull back, keep a leveled distance of personal space between their bodies, he doesn’t exactly have anywhere to go. He’s pinned open, he’s pasted against a canvas and those metaphorical needles that keep his body from moving, he’s nothing but an open project for Noiz to press his fingers against, “I like the way you look.”

As much as that phrase inspires warmth at the back of his throat, draining into his stomach for his body to absorb all of its nutrients, Aoba still questions it, still wants to divert this tunnel vision Noiz has against his body in the way it sits heavily against his skin, waxy and thick and all-consuming, leaves Aoba desperate to breathe with how much it presses against his chest, compresses his lungs.

It shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t make much of a difference when Noiz sees him all the time, his body doesn’t disappear from Noiz’s awareness enough where everything is new and fresh and altered in detail so significantly that Noiz needs to study it, and Aoba can’t really understand why—Noiz doesn’t need to look at him as though Aoba is the only image of color in a world painted of shades of black and white, Aoba doesn’t think he should be that important focus, he’s done nothing of that caliber worthy enough to earn all that attention so intent on his being.

However, Noiz thinks differently, and his lips find a small distance away from Aoba’s, lingers in that space, just out of reach, “I like looking at you,” and he moves, his mouth skating along the surface of his skin against his cheek, warm breath that pushes out his mouth and collects against the blue-haired man’s face, and goosebumps bloom against his skin, follows the phantom touch of Noiz’s breath, and Aoba tires to control the shiver that flares at the base of his spine, but he can’t quite pull enough self-restrain to stop it from spilling into his veins.

Aoba’s hands curl against the edge of the counter, his body leans against it for some kind of support to stop the ever-increasing unsteadiness that laces through his nerves, shaking his foundation, and Noiz moves in synch, contours his body nearly to the blue-haired male’s, continues all his sensual words that fall thickened and fever-hot from his lips, “I like seeing your face,” and the words crouch on Aoba’s skin, lying flat against the surface.

Aoba knows he’s standing but he feels like he’s lying down, some kind of wall against his back where Noiz’s body pushes him flat against it, cornered and surrounded and all kinds of metaphors for being boxed in by this presence that's unrelenting against his senses and drowns against all things that are provided by Noiz’s words, just only his words, and it should be a talking point for Aoba to think over as to why and how it has so much of an influence against the strength of his own body.

Noiz’s chest nearly touches Aoba’s, with his arms creating a pillar for his body to rest against as they embrace against the counter, and more of those sayings come, “I like seeing all of you, I like to watch as you only think of me and _only_ me,” and one hand moves, finds a steady path toward Aoba’s hip, shaping over the material, “knowing you’re only thinking about me, knowing I’m the only thing that could be making you act this way,” and Noiz emphasizes each piece of sound with his tongue, a flat trail created when he presses it against Aoba’s neck, ending it with a kiss to the bottom of Aoba’s ear.

He doesn’t take the outer shell between his teeth, doesn’t do anything that involves getting his mouth back onto the skin of Aoba’s body, instead only lingers it near Aoba’s ear, only breathes hot against it, and he knows it’ll mess with Aoba’s nerves. It’ll further drive him into a place that will surely make him lose all of this inhibitions, enough to break apart into Noiz’s hands, and Noiz will admire the prettiness of it, the colors of desire that have bled all over them from being released and Aoba won’t have to worry, he won’t have to make that pretty little head panic—he’ll put them back together, he’ll repair Aoba with the best parts that are unharmed.

Aoba is left to shake against Noiz’s body and all these little sounds that collect at the base of his brain try to come forward, trying to get him to remember that he’s not too fond of words spoken of desire, when his face would heat and his regular phrase of, “stop saying things like that,” and some kind of pout that would curl across his face, but he can’t, can’t seem to pull away from the atmosphere that he knows Noiz is deliberately creating.

Noiz’s hand begins to move, grazing against Aoba’s side, curls around his back and reaches where his shirt covers Aoba’s shoulder, fingers wedging under it and gripping it, “it’s so nice knowing that I’m the one who makes you feel that way,” Noiz smears against Aoba’s skin as his mouth comes toward where his hand it, and he moves his hand, pulling the material with it, exposing Aoba’s shoulder where his mouth hovers over it, only breathes against it, “I like it when you think of me like that.”

Aoba should do something, something other than letting his body be devoured by the sounds that Noiz creates, he should stop and turn back around because he’s sure the ingredients he had prepared for an occasion are turning stale, he should tell Noiz that he should go back to work and not just leave when he wants to because there are important things that his work has that needs to be taken care of, but not like this, not when there’s heat and sensuality that skims across his skin, not when there’s Noiz, a solid presence of heat in front of him, when all these things collapse against his body and takes him down with it—it’s an impossible force that he can’t resist.

Noiz then licks over the skin, a light press of the end of his tongue against it, the metal that punctures his tongue scraping against it, and he notes the shudder, the light tremble that the older man can’t hide. Noiz then moves his head, turns to lick up to the underside of Aoba’s jaw and retracting when he trails it back to Aoba’s ear.

Noiz pulls back, moving away from the blue-haired man, a smirk that pushes against the back of his lips, trying to break to the surface as he watches Aoba try to not follow with him. Instead, he removes his hand from Aoba’s shoulder and finds a hold on Aoba’s chin, fingers curling lightly, making sure that Aoba is looking at him, can see everything that reflects so vividly in Aoba’s eyes, the partially blown pupils that he notes, the glazed look that Noiz is trying to bring to the surface.

Noiz wants to put his hands over Aoba’s body to keep him in this state, in this perpetual motion of desire and pleasure that uses his spine as a highway.

But Noiz waits.

Aoba wants to look away, not see himself reflected back in the depths of Noiz’s eyes, watch himself become desperate but he can’t break the hold, he has no will to break away that's a flash of irritation at the ends of his fingers. Noiz gazes at him, his attention is fully focused on Aoba’s face, and that loose grip around his chin is keeping him lodged in place.

It should be absurd with how little Noiz does can reach inside his chest and hold him hostage.

Noiz leans in and brings his lips so close to Aoba’s, so very close, and Aoba is ready to take the next move when he’d connect their mouths together but Noiz doesn’t exactly follow it—it’s a deviation, something different that leaves Aoba with residue of confusion at the back of his tongue, the aftertaste of a slight annoyance that Aoba tries to swallow down.

But Noiz decides that mercy is a route that best befits the situation and he’s leaning in, lets his mouth connect with Aoba’s, his tongue making a trace of the seam of Aoba’s lips, rubs hot and slick against the surface, and Aoba is very aware of the metal that clings to Noiz’s tongue and in doing so, he opens his mouth, allows Noiz to flood his senses that becomes a tidal wave that hits the shores of his body, all of it sweeping him into its surge and be carried away into some place far away, some place where he could never dream even in his imagination’s best crafted images of colors and idyllic creations.

Noiz’s tongue runs across his teeth, a light click of the metal ball that passes over them, Noiz’s neck craning forward slightly to get farther into Aoba’s mouth, his eyes having closed as he lets his tongue become his eyes, knowing his way around Aoba’s mouth so much better than what he could have thought. Aoba lets Noiz’s tongue meet with his own and they slide together, twist around the other in a sensual creation of more heat, each trading their own tastes that the other searches for. 

Noiz’s tongue becomes a thief inside Aoba’s mouth and his lungs become the scene of a crime when it reaches into them to take the air from them, forcing Aoba to breathe, to disconnect from Noiz’s mouth with a needy gasp that’s so laughably self-contained and shakes, so unsteady. Noiz follows with him and connects their mouths again, pushing his tongue back into the other’s mouth, coming to meet with Aoba’s tongue again, and they press against each other, sliding passed the other to only come back.

They trade spit; they trade heat, a hot suction created by their mouths to pull the other’s tongue into their mouths. Aoba’s hands need something to grip, that gives him a better option that the counter doesn’t and they’re hesitant when his body answers just what they can grip onto, but he tries to shove it down to the bottom of his feet—his fingers unfurl, unhinges from the counter and find their way to Noiz’s waist, resting lightly before settling against the surface.

Noiz’s hands move, too, with movement that borders on delicate, the hand that’s been clinging to Aoba’s chin disconnecting until it creates its own pathway down the side of Aoba’s neck to rest where his neck connects with his shoulders, his fingers touching the base of Aoba’s hairline, the other hand settling below the hair tie that keeps Aoba’s hair up.

He somewhat thinks about it, letting his fingers move upward to slip under the tie and pulling back, feel his fingers sliding through the strands, through Aoba’s hair releasing from the high up ponytail, feel all of that wonderful hair collapse and crash against his hand. He would filter those strands through his hand and wrap around his palm and proceed to learn the story of it that Aoba has barely told him about it but in all due time, he’ll get that chance, and for now, he’ll back away from it, only keeping his hand on the back of Aoba’s neck while he moves his other hand to the smaller male’s shoulder.

Their tongues continue to move against the other and Noiz will pull back to breathe and Aoba will follow, snaring Noiz’s bottom lip between his teeth and releasing, Noiz coming back to his mouth to feed on the breath Aoba releases, those small sounds, indiscriminate in their loudness but all the more of a sign that Aoba’s relaxing, he’s falling into the oblivion Noiz has been shooting for.

They’re beginning to soar across the cosmos and Noiz doesn’t want them to crash land back into their bodies in a cloud of stardust and smoke by the gravity of realization that is so inconvenient.

There’s this scratch at the back of Aoba’s mind that is small in inconvenience but nonetheless there, and it’s low in this reminder that he’s in the kitchen, he’s here with Noiz, he’s in a space where they’re not supposed to be doing this, he’s going to embarrass himself all over the floor every time he comes back to this space because there's going to be a constant reminder that he’ll remember every small detail of an unimportant event that has taken place. It tells him he won’t be able to not become red-faced every time he takes a look at a certain spot on the floor, on the counter, maybe when he opens the fridge—it’ll all be there, every one of his senses set ablaze with the constant realization.

However, it’s been too long, too much static collected at the ends, waiting to be used up when Noiz touches Aoba—it’s been too long since they’ve been together like this. Sure, a week or two isn’t long by standards; they know they’ll see each other, they know it’s only a matter of time, but that’s a small detail, that’s something they can overlook in favor of their hands unable to find a resting place on the other’s body, and they search and wander and trail around the other’s body for a place to rest their weary bones.

Noiz wants to be tender and merciful and it sounds like something valorous, and his hands would turn into blankets to warm Aoba’s body, and he wants to love Aoba’s body with how his hands will treat it.

Aoba doesn’t (can’t) do anything, couldn’t do anything, just stands there contoured to Noiz’s body and listening to the blood rush through his ears—he can’t think, he can’t breathe properly, he can’t do anything other than let Noiz feed from his body, rob him of nutrients that his body needs until he’s clinging to Noiz to take them back, to stop him from being a thief and leaving his body a burglary.

Noiz is the one to pull away, Aoba chasing the heat left over, and there’s a thin line of saliva that is the only thing that connects before it snaps, and it’s like some kind of jolt to Aoba’s body like he’s truly recognizing the severed connected between their bodies, but his body is too dazed to recognize following that need, and Aoba would swear that he’s ended up empty, as if Noiz has taken something precarious from his body.

Leaves these wounds that Aoba searches desperately for Noiz to give back what he’s taken to repair himself.

Noiz stares back at Aoba’s face, his eyes find the thinning trail of spit that's leaked over the corner of Aoba’s mouth and he doesn’t resist the pull of it. His thumb comes up and swipes against the liquid, smears it along the side of Aoba’s mouth, feeling it dry under the pad of his thumb. This seems to jolt Aoba, his reaction delayed as he pulls back, his face showing traces of confusion at why Noiz is collecting Aoba’s spit against his thumb and rubbing it into his skin. Perhaps he should be a little grossed out but then again, he just had another man’s tongue in his mouth where all these germs that cling to Noiz’s teeth and under his tongue have been deposited.

Instead, Noiz’s thumb finds the corner of Aoba’s mouth, the pad presses gently against the seam of Aoba’s lips, lingering, letting his touch permeate the surface of Aoba’s lips before he presses against it more firmly and sinks his thumb passed the seam of Aoba’s lips into the wet heat of his mouth. Aoba opens for him and Noiz’s thumb presses against his tongue, moving his thumb to rub against Aoba’s tongue, swipes against the spit that coats Aoba’s tongue, the heat, the wetness of it, noting the warm breaths of air that grazes over his thumb from Aoba’s throat.

The blonde’s hand moves from the older man’s shoulder, drags it over to Aoba’s neck, under Aoba’s jaws, his fingers and palm pressing with slight pressure until Noiz reaches Aoba’s chest, letting his palm rest flat against the middle of it. Aoba is very aware of Noiz’s stare, of the intensity of his focus that is on his mouth and still, it makes him squirm, this gaze that is a physical representation of Noiz’s affection that lays on his skin, coats him in this unseeing force that Aoba knows it there, can feel it, can feel the pressure of it like a physical touch.

He inhales sharply when Noiz’s fingers find his nipples again over his shirt, where his thumbs press against the surface, where his thumbnail comes out to flick against it, making an up and down motion, light in its touch, not enough pressure gradient to really do anything extreme but it’s enough for Aoba to move underneath his touch, to become torn between the sensation of Noiz’s thumb against his nipple and his other thumb that is pressed against his tongue.

Noiz then retreats his thumb to replace them with his pointer and middle fingers, pressing them against Aoba’s tongue all the while he continues to play with Aoba’s nipple while over his shirt, noting the slight firmness, the struggle of Aoba’s body to move. The older man's hands have fallen from Noiz’s waist a while ago and he’s just now taking notice, his eyes leaving the sight of his fingers in Aoba’s mouth to see them back at the counter, curled around the edge and he’s sure Aoba may not have noticed that he’s changed their position.

Noiz pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his mouth, in need of more of that breath that Aoba gives out. He’s not dead yet, not if he doesn’t drink in more of that desire that overflows from Aoba’s body, where it collects in his mouth for Noiz’s thirst and human weakness, and he can sustain his life from it, from the sounds that Aoba’s throat vibrates around, becomes shaky, and Noiz is all the more eager to feed from it, nourish himself, and Aoba’s body is more than pleased when Noiz takes everything it can’t seem to get rid of.

Noiz eats away at the small sounds that well up in Aoba’s throat, the ones Aoba tries to swallow back down like it’s a bad thing and now they’re swirling inside his chest, these free radicals that turn sour and choke his lungs and squeeze the back of his throat until he’s got no choice to let them go, and Noiz is there to catch every piece of it.

Aoba’s a mass of vibrations; he’s caught between the staccato rhythms of his body, where he’s not sure what his body is doing, with each moment of pressure that the younger man exerts against his nipple through his shirt, the sweltering heat of Noiz’s mouth on his own. His body is monster that craves, that desires, that wants all of what Noiz can offer him, and Aoba is still caught off guard by this complete consumption of his body by the need he has to Noiz to touch him, to caress his skin, to feel the heated sensation of Noiz’s hands lain upon his body.

Noiz’s mouth pushes against the older male’s his thumb presses against Aoba’s nipple harder and there’s that knowing feeling of his hips hitching against Aoba’s, these aborted movements that tell his body is caught between different sensations pulling on his body in all different directions. He’s not sure where his body is losing control, but it doesn’t matter, as long as Aoba’s here to catch the falling pieces of his ever-ruining body.

He knows Aoba will be generous enough to piece his body back together with a delicate care.

Aoba’s hands have figured out what to do with themselves as they reach up and it feels like slow motion, like Aoba just can’t lift them fast enough. They settle against Noiz’s neck, his fingers find their way under strands of short blonde hair, encircling them to create a hold, one that Aoba tries to not clench down on but he needs something to hold onto, he needs something that will keep him from collapsing into himself.

Noiz begins to move him mouth away from Aoba’s, kisses along the side of his mouth, lavishes kisses against the smaller male’s cheek, kisses down until he reaches the underside of Aoba’s jaw, kissing his neck, pulling the skin between his teeth and licks at it in an effort to soothe against any pain he may have cause, licking flat, wet trails around it and pulling it back into his mouth. Aoba’s breath hitches, his fingers clench in Noiz’s hair and this sensation of feeling it being pulled, of feeling the strands of his hair come under tense pressure, it makes Noiz pause for a moment, his mouth hovering over Aoba’s neck with hot, moistened air hitting the marred skin.

In a brief moment of time, he marvels at that sensation, he takes it in and lets himself feel it, submerge into this slight jolt of pain that has him in wonderment. It’s always those little things, when names of heat and desire are exposed to the open air, against the side of a wall, against the bark of a tree, placed against the inside of the door to their apartment, where he can feel all of it on his skin when Aoba breathes it so deeply when Noiz does something, when he can tell the difference between the warm breath of Aoba’s voice and the coolness of the apartment—it’s so small things, those little pieces of life that should be mundane and mean nothing.

But Noiz is making up for those lost years of his youth where nothing made a difference upon his skin and he’s going to use Aoba’s body as the boat to ferry him across the sea and to toward all that sensation.

Noiz scrapes his teeth across the surface of Aoba’s skin, down his neck until he meets with the collar of Aoba’s shirt, pulling it to the side to fit his teeth over Aoba’s shoulder, pressing his tongue against it, licking at it, collecting the residue of salt that lays there, letting his tongue linger, listening carefully for the tenor of Aoba’s voice, for the vibrations of his throat, for anything, really, that tells him he can keep going, he can keep indulging himself in the skin that lays just under his mouth.

Aoba should care about what Noiz is doing to his shoulders, to his neck, to every imprint of teeth upon his flesh, and maybe he should be protesting, stop Noiz from laying these marks against his skin because won’t that be something fun to explain to everyone he’ll pass by, but there’s this indefinite heat that spirals through his mind, that creates and opaque curtain around his eyes that stops him from seeing anything, noticing anything, anything that’s not Noiz directly in front of him.

He tries to say it, gather enough breath in his lungs to let Noiz’s name come forth and out his mouth with pleading tones and reprimanding for trying to place too much evidence of their current activities against his skin for the world to look at, for it to be displayed so publicly—all that comes from his throat is an unsteady moan and it’s too late to stop it, not with the way Noiz’s hand has left his nipple, grazing over his stomach as it moves south and wedging under his shirt to press flat against his stomach.

Aoba had forgotten about the apron he had been wearing, too caught in the atmosphere of desire to remember what he had been doing previously, and he remembers as Noiz pulls away from his shoulder, coming in for another kiss, heavy and thirst-filled and desperate against his body. Instead, Noiz’s hands remove themselves from his body, the heat of them fading and becoming a phantom touch his body begins to seek, needs, has to have, but with Noiz’s tongue that rolls over his teeth, against the inside of his mouth, and over his tongue, he’s able to let it go for now just as long as Noiz fills his senses and all of his awareness centers around nothing but Noiz’s body so close to his own.

The counter bites into Aoba’s lower body, the back of his thighs pressed into the edge, and it’s becoming more distracting, edging into his mind with the way the larger male is pressing his hips into Aoba’s own, with that need he feels that’s a muted sensation between the layers of clothes. Instead, Aoba pulls back, breaking the connection between their lips to adjust himself, turning around to move the previously forgotten ingredients aside, sitting himself in their occupied spot, turning back around to watch Noiz come closer, fit himself in between Aoba’s legs, knocking them out of the way for a wider area of space.

Noiz leans in, placing both hands on the counter, his head hunching into his shoulders slightly because of the position and he stares at Aoba, his eyes take in this fill of what he knows he can always have, when he can always look at Aoba’s face at any time he pleases, there’s never any set limit on this, but he just wants to look, he wants to see all that desire and love and all things that are pleasant against the surface of his mind to be reflected back at him, to see the desire that he has caused to be pent up in Aoba’s body, to know the effects that he is having on Aoba’s body—it’s an exhilarating combination, it’s something he always tries to indulge himself in no matter how old it has gotten, no matter how many times he has done it—it’s still something he craves, loves, even desires for when he wants to extract all signs of love from Aoba’s body to take it into his own being.

Aoba is very aware of the stare, very aware of Noiz’s position and the amount of intensity that he is giving his body, and Aoba resists trying to squirm under the scrutiny, grips the counter where his hands have rested to control himself but it doesn’t quite exactly work, not with the way Noiz has laid a palm on Aoba’s thigh, resting flat and solid against it before he moves it, trailing up the blue-haired male’s leg, under the apron, resting at the top of his thigh and Noiz keeps eye contact with him the whole time, watching him, looking for any reaction that will let him know when Aoba’s on the verge of breaking, when he can know the right time to extract Aoba’s voice in its moment of weakness when it’s the greatest.

Aoba wants to kiss him again, wants to let Noiz sink into his body because anything is better than this all-consuming attention Noiz gives him, with that stare that house verdant eyes with a too sharp knowing of the world and all its mechanisms, and he wants to kiss all those things away, the older man wants to eat away at all the bad things that reside in Noiz’s soul and feed himself to the bad thing against a brick wall instead of Noiz, instead of this youth that Aoba’s been so hard-pressed to show that there’s so much to living, there’s so much light to bask in, there’s just _so much_ —

Aoba is abruptly aware that Noiz’s mouth is back on his own, his mouth is pushing into Noiz’s, his arms are wrapped around Noiz’s neck, and he tries to crawl inside the space of Noiz’s mouth down to his core, trying so desperately to fit himself in all of the empty spaces that Noiz has never bothered to care for—someone has to, he wants to fill all of that emptiness with his own desire and love and all of the things that he knows could make Noiz complete—it’s only up to Noiz if he accepts this offer, if he accepts this sacrifice that is Aoba’s body.

Noiz is more than happy to accept his kisses, Aoba’s tongue in his mouth, the warmth that coats his spine as it descends to the base and explodes on contact with sweltering dust filling his body. His hands are quick against Aoba’s sides, moving up, down, circular, repeats each step in different variations and deviances, keeps Aoba on the edge as his hands grasp at Aoba’s hips, sliding him forward until Noiz feels him pressed flushed against his body, unable to go anywhere, unable to do anything but writhe against the solid wall that Noiz’s body against Aoba’s.

“You have no idea,” Noiz smears against Aoba’s lips, pulling back to lick at Aoba’s bottom lip, pulls back before connecting their mouths again, pushing forward, one hand moving from Aoba’s waist, moves down Aoba’s thigh, his hand fitting under the blue-haired man’s knee, gripping it all the while rubbing at the other denim-clad thigh, “how much I miss you at work,” and Aoba makes a sound, breathes harsh through his nose when his lungs burn inside his chest, his voice trying to claw out his throat but continuously shoved back down into his lungs, “how much I want to see you,” and Noiz finds his mouth against Aoba’s jaw, biting against the skin, laves his tongue against it, almost too intent on drawing blood just under the surface, so precariously close to his teeth.

“I miss you so much that I can’t breathe,” and the blonde weighs his body against the other’s, heavily breathes against Aoba’s neck, gets his tongue against it even more with long, harsh stokes that flourish with the indents of teeth marks against the alabaster exterior, and Aoba bites his lip to stop him from opening his mouth and his voice coming up from his throat, feels like it’s blistering the inside of his throat with every moment he keeps it held back, with trying to stop it from falling out his mouth and embarrassing himself, will flush him with too much heat than is already swirling inside his body.

“Every time I see you at work,” and there it is, his voice crashes against the back of his teeth, presses against the softness of his lips, “every time I watch you walk by,” and Noiz gets his hand not grasping Aoba’s knee under Aoba’s shirt, under the apron that adorns the front of his body, traveling up his chest, across flat of his stomach, up his sternum to rest back over Aoba’s nipples, using his thumb to rub against the nub, presses against it with first knuckle in his thumb before rolling over it with the pad of his thumb, “I just want to pull you into my office, get you over my desk and fuck you there.”

Aoba’s throat unhinges and his lung contract too fast and Aoba’s spitting out all things desire to run over his mouth and drip below, and he can’t taper down on the sounds that his throat expels. Noiz isn’t finished, pulling back to stare at Aoba, breaks the hold Aoba has over his neck, arms falling back to his side useless and jelly-like, making sure he’s connecting their gazes, “I just want to see you spread out over my desk, gripping the edges, making all those little sounds,” and Aoba breathes, open-mouthed, staring at Noiz, breathing heavily, “watching you whine for me, trying to keep your mouth closed,” and there’s a particular hard flick of his nail against Aoba’s nipple.

“You’d look so good over my desk,” and Noiz won’t come any closer, he won’t get in any distance where Aoba could kiss him, could smother those sounds coming from the younger man, can’t swallow them down and stop the overflow of those words from collecting against his skin and splitting him open for Noiz to catch all of that hidden desire Aoba keeps, and it’s frustrating, it’s annoying as it is lust-filled and sensual and all things that heat Aoba’s body to drown inside.

“Leaning over you on my desk, fucking you, making you take me right there in the office for anyone to walk in on, see you like that, all over my desk, with your hair so fucking messy and suit undone,” and Noiz is openly panting, grinding his hips against Aoba’s front, evident that Aoba’s not the only one affected, “would you like that, huh, Aoba? Let them see you taking my cock—do you think they’d get jealous?”

Aoba grits his teeth, not wanting to really think about it but it’s there, it’s lodged in his brain and Aoba can’t do anything against it—he shouldn’t be thinking about work like that, he shouldn’t be listening to Noiz, knowing exactly how difficult it’ll be to even come near Noiz’s office without those images collapsing against the pillars of his mind, crumbling because they’re built on a foundation of sand, but he can’t stop it, he can’t fight against the desire that pushes him against the wall, pins him there to be fed to the temptation that his body is accepting.

“I think they’d be jealous,” and there’s that fucking smirk Noiz gets, when he knows it’s getting to Aoba, when he knows he’s got Aoba’s entire attention, “them watching me fuck you, watching as I’m the _only_ one who gets to have you like this?”

Noiz leans in a fraction, hovers over Aoba as he closes his pointer finger and thumb around Aoba’s nipple, rolling it between his finger and thumb and Aoba arches, closes his eyes as he caught in this storm surge of pleasure that claws down his spine in its journey, “but you know what?” and his breath is hot against the underside of Aoba’s jaw, “I’d never let them watch, I’d never let them see what is mine,” and during most of this, Noiz isn’t sure where this is coming from, where he’s finding the need to spew words of his desire into this form, why he’s even continuing, how it’s pressing against his lungs and compressing around them, but he can’t stop, he can’t get himself to close the leakage of desire and pleasure and all of these things that stroke the heat inside his body, where he feels like he could burn inside his skin.

It’s his body birthing a new cosmos with how ready the ingredients are inside.

“Only I’d get to watch you, only I get to see you lose control,” are words of increasing heat, of proclivity that Noiz lets flow from his body, unable to stop it now that he’s going, “I’m the only one who gets to watch you squirm on my desk, taking my cock, trying to cover your voice but we’d both know how much you want me to fuck you into my desk and come all over it like a good little secretary would.”

Aoba shakes underneath these words, pushing down on his sense of reason so sharply, gripping again at the counter, so sure he can feel the bones in his hands grind together and possibly dislocate, and he’ll snap every single one with the way he clamps down on the need that builds ever so increasingly inside his stomach, coils too tightly, and maybe this is the way he dies, this is the way he’ll come apart because his stomach will split and all those soft, vulnerable parts will come dripping in desire from his body but he doesn’t have to worry, there’s no need to worry because Noiz is there, a solid presence of heat in front of him, and he’ll catch every part of him, everything that slides to the floor in a hasty escape from his body.

Noiz will sew all his parts back together and make him into a creature that he should have been before all that desire had escaped his body.

Aoba wants Noiz to touch him, he wants Noiz to do something—anything is better than this act of words that spiral against his body and pierce his skin where they touch, where his body will leak the desire through these open wounds since there’s too much built up inside his veins. He feels too complacent, he feels like he should be doing something other than letting Noiz speak in these sweet nothings and bite into his skin, but he’s pinned here, with Noiz staring at him, those jade eyes that encompass the entire space he’s in, as impossible as that seems, but he feels its weighted presence against his whole body.

But here, with Noiz’s fingers on his nipples, grinding against him, Aoba think he could come like this, with Noiz’s words of encouragement so saccharine against his skin, he could come like this; the blue-haired really thinks he could.

Noiz is thinking about it, all those words that he’s let his voice spill over his lips—he can see it too vividly, with the creak of the chair in his ear somewhere, the tightness of space that his seat would provide, the smell of old leather that his chair has, and he thinks he can see the undeniable sight of Aoba above, can even focus on the near phantom touch of Aoba’s hands around his shoulders, clenching, grasping at the white of his undershirt that’s not protected from his suit’s jacket from discarding it somewhere in the office to lay there forgotten, because it’ll be there for a day, maybe tomorrow, possibly longer to collect dust and rot against the floor because Noiz doesn’t care enough to pick up.

It’s there, lodged in the forefront of his mind, the image unfurls in his mind to abruptly slide behind his eyes and he can’t think about anything beyond the flickering camera behind his eyes that presents him with every image that breaks over his mind: he’s thinking about Aoba in his office, with those pressed suit pants around his thighs, his jacket is pulled down half-passed his arms, securing them behind his back as Noiz can see his own hand pushing down on it, with a fistful of that jacket because there’s no way for Aoba to use his hands at all, there’s no way for Aoba to stop the sounds that leak over his lips and drip onto the desk below in a small puddle that Aoba can’t clean up fast enough.

His chest stutters in its unsteady rhythm of pulling oxygen into his ever-increasingly needy lungs as his throat cuts itself off from providing to his lungs because he wants that image in his palms, he wants that image to become a possible thing, and he’s really considering it, he’s really thinking about preparations to go through with executing that—there’s that minor problem that comes in the form of blue strands and a disapproving look and words of protest that become less convincing warning him that it’s not going to happen, it’s indecent, it’s fucking obscene that Noiz would even dare to consider these spurred images.

He’ll have to work on changing the tone of those words with his fingers and mouth and all things that he can offer with his body in that moment of time when it unfurls in front of him.

However, he’s been spending too much time holed up in his mind with too many images and sounds and this lingering phantom touch against the edges of his nerves creating all these riling pileups of what-if situations that he’s lost that heat that’s been pent up in Aoba’s breathing—it’s cooled down, the fervor of them having been swallowed back down Aoba’s throat. Noiz is left staring ahead, his vision clearing until Aoba’s the only focal point, and he’s staring back at Noiz, his mouth open, brows drawn together.

Aoba’s been sitting on the counter, unable to move, unable to go anywhere but be in the line of sight of Noiz’s gaze and sure, just moments ago he had swallowed a pill of desire that his body had absorbed too quickly and now it’s worn off, the high is no longer present at the ends of the pads of his fingers, and Aoba is able to come back down and see the reason behind situations that were previously vague and black in color.

It’s like an explosion of Technicolor happened to his previously monochrome world with how much his senses suddenly collide against the top of his skull.

Aoba isn’t too good with initiation, he knows this, he knows just how unfortunate his mind is too completely self-aware of his own mechanisms, but he’s been trying, he really has, and he tests just how much he’s collected inside his chest in some kind of hidden away reserve, and brings his hands up, moving them in front of Noiz’s body, touches against the bottom of Noiz’s chin and curves to mold over the angles of Noiz’s bottom jaw, his thumbs finding the hinges of the younger man’s jaw.

This seems to startle Noiz, Aoba feeling the ripples of his skin, the small jerk of his muscles. Aoba tries to not look away, he tries to not let himself give into that urge to turn away from this stare that Noiz is giving him and instead, he’s trying to face it. He licks his lips, notices when Noiz follows the movement of his tongue, almost like his eyes are straining to touch it, the blue-haired man trying to stop his urge to give into that specific reaction that he’s been trying to avoid, and he holds on, he continues to look at Noiz.

It’s a lever, pulled down to the very bottom to be sure the situation has been changed, initiated, and Aoba continues to stare back, Noiz following with his own gaze and he pulled on his hands, bringing Noiz closer, Noiz putting up no resistance, and he lets himself press his lips against Noiz’s, and the contact is illusory, it’s so light to either of them—it’s just a delicate kiss, something to get everything rolling in a domino effect.

Aoba pulls back, he looks again to Noiz’s face, his fingers are still held against the delicate warmth of Noiz’s skin, and he somewhat thinks of how this must feel to Noiz, how his body reacts to these sudden blares of sensation where there was nothing there for years, and he’s somewhat still mystified by how Noiz reacts to it, how he takes it all in with this fascination he tries to downplay that Aoba can see directly through this weak smoke screen the blonde tries to blow into Aoba’s face.

Nevertheless, Aoba keeps then moves their positions when he pulls Noiz back to him, aware of how docile Noiz is being at this moment (in fact, a part of him continues to be thrown by how Noiz isn’t moving against him, isn’t making some kind of comment with overtones of a salacious nature that’ll surely sink into Aoba’s skin and lodge there) but with this sort of dazed, day dream-like look etched into the exterior of Noiz’s face, all of this moment’s softness has settled over his skin in such a way that he doesn’t fight back, he doesn’t really do anything in this moment to hinder it’s progression.

Noiz is curious about this—it’s what Aoba’s doing, how he’s orienting the atmosphere, the guidance of his fingers across his skin, it’s not something Aoba does very often—he’s too self-aware, Noiz thinks, he’s too concerned with the mechanics of emotions to really let himself feel in a situation, not without a lot of coaxing from Noiz, with his fingers that play upon the sensualities that Aoba denies himself too often but that’s what makes it better, he’d decide, it gives him this kind of chance to get Aoba to that place, wedged inside his mind and into the darkened parts where sunlight never reaches, too unused and Noiz loves it, he loves every moment of drawing it into the daylight for it to be exposed to his entire viewing pleasure.

But he looks on, his eyes have zeroed in on the canvas in front of him looking at all of the colors, taking in everything, waiting for something to be revealed to finally see the entire picture.

Aoba doesn’t really know where to go from here—he was intent on having Noiz to stop looking at him, somehow lost inside some buildup of his mind that Aoba didn’t really think about where he was going to go with his delicate caresses and touches against the softness of Noiz’s skin, reaching out to what he doesn’t know in the first place, but his fingers instead substituting that unknown desire with reaching out to Noiz and making it into something solid for him to grasp at.

So he’s left floundering, wondering how he’s going to proceed—he doesn’t have to think of something, he doesn’t have to search the bareness of his mind because Noiz is raising his own hands, covers Aoba’s hands with his own warmth, and he’s leaning into the touch, he’s keeping his gaze on Aoba’s face, like he doesn’t want to stop looking, doesn’t want to lose this connection that’s been established from some spontaneous need to do something other than what Noiz doesn’t care enough to think about.

The taller male takes one of hands of his jaw and turns his head and his lips have the intention to place all this affection that’s been collecting against the back of his throat with his lips placed upon the inside of Aoba’s palm, lingers them in that place, just a delicate, soft touch of his lips that is romantic in nature, a form of gratitude that he expresses so much better than poorly-conceived words that his brain is only capable at the moment.

Noiz places these small, chaste kisses to his palm, over his skin, praises the skin with his appraisal, all the while he keeps this delicate hold over Aoba’s hand, resting in his hands and covering the other that’s on his face. There’s this collection of heat that wedges through his pores in a slow ascent to the surface. It’s not that flustered heat that he knows the blonde takes in delight to watch spread across Aoba’s skin, but something akin to this kind of emotion that slicks the inside of his lungs and climbs up his throat to settle on his tongue with this natural sweetness that he can’t get over the taste of it and can’t swallow back down fast enough to stop it from ruining his body with its taste that he’ll crave more than what he’s being given.

It’s such a reaction that it still catches Aoba off guard, just how much it can coast along in his veins and travel so fast.

Noiz keeps his eyes directed at Aoba’s, watching Aoba specifically for any reaction as he continues to press delicate kisses to the inside of his palm before he licks against the skin as though he’s collecting his affection back inside his body just to repeat the process. He’s watching the emotions that push to the front of his eyes, watching as hazel slowly blows wide with affection, with everything unspoken from Aoba’s lips that the blue-haired male never lets go because it’s converted into sounds from his body that end in high sighs and breathy pieces of music to Noiz’s ears.

Noiz’s lips move over Aoba’s wrist, pressing softly against it with his lips, lingers them there, and stops as he pulls away, instead pressing the older man’s as he repositions his hand over Aoba’s own to lace his fingers into the slots of space for his fingers to settle there in this home they’ve made for themselves. Noiz lets his eyes grow heavy and fall closed, taking in the heat, the softness of Aoba’s hand, the delicate-slopping ridges and shapes his hand makes and Noiz lets himself sigh with a breath he’s kept too long in his lungs.

Aoba watches him, the way Noiz treats his body, that soft touch laid upon his skin in such a way that contrasts with Noiz’s outward exterior of a calloused and cold-worded makeup that Aoba knows is specifically designed to ward off things from pressing inside his chest. In many ways, it makes him happy, it makes his chest swell, all this feeling that washes against the inside of his ribs—just truly seeing that kind of change is really remarkable, Aoba thinks to himself when he’s in the confines of his own mind.

Noiz looks at him again when he removes his hand from Aoba’s that’s been placed against his cheek and brings it toward the hand Noiz’s is holding, to the end of Aoba’s sleeve around his wrist, slips his fingers under the material and pulls it up Aoba’s arm, exposes it to the cooled artificial air inside the kitchen as he pushes the sleeve up, pushed passed his elbow to rest just above the joint, laying thick upon Aoba’s skin in a way that Aoba isn’t too sure of, like there’s a sense of vulnerability for something in the air that desires to understand.

Noiz switches the position of his hand that’s been clasped around his wrist to hold Aoba’s palm in his hand, fingers wrapping so surely around them, brings his other hand around Aoba’s wrist and slides up Aoba’s arm, his fingers tracing against the skin, palm skating across the exterior and finds itself on the underside of Aoba’s forearm where his hand creates a loosened hold, and Noiz completes this action when he presses his lips airily to the skin at the top of Aoba’s wrist, lingering, pasting all his passions to that one area of skin.

Noiz continues this as he gently pulls Aoba’s arm toward him, straightening it out as Aoba’s arm slowly becomes a straight angle, no longer bent at the elbow, as Noiz moves upward, with every press of his lips, the soft contact of his lips a heated place on Aoba’s skin that goosebumps rush forward to worship. Noiz continues, moves toward the vulnerable skin around the joint of his elbow, and he smiles against the skin, smearing all of his unspoken words of admiration against it because if he does it enough, if he tries with just enough force, he’s sure Aoba’s body will accept it, let it sink beneath the skin and into his veins to feed his body, all of it intermingling with the most important parts of Aoba’s body.

This is where the older man’s skin splits in half with desire, of feeling and wants and all those little words of affections that Aoba doesn’t spend time on trying to decipher into some legible feeling that his body can exude to Noiz, but he continues to watch, his bottom lip finding itself caught between his teeth, held captive to stop those little sounds that catch against his throat—it’s ticklish and there’s this thought inside his mind at the base of his skull that somehow has influence over him as it reasons that if he gives into these sounds, if he lets his throat open and all these words rush too fast to the exit, he’ll ruin the mood, he’ll rip this soft veil over their eyes.

Noiz stops when he reaches passed the blue-haired man’s elbow, opens his eyes and finds Aoba’s face, and for that moment he looks at the openness of the other in front of him, of that unguarded moment that’s pasted over Aoba’s face, with his mouth jarred slightly, the softness of his eyes, and that’s a combination that makes Noiz want to reach out, trail his fingers against the raised skin of Aoba’s cheekbones that ridge just under the surface, press the pads of his fingers against Aoba’s lips, swipe across them.

He just wants to _touch, touch, touch_ and touch some more, lay his entire being against the canvas that is Aoba’s body and become the paint itself to cover the entire picture.

Aoba is the picture of desire and Noiz is ready to delve into it, get his fingers around it and trace along the surface, feel all of the texture and different patterns in which they make, study it so thoroughly that Noiz is completely familiar with it that he doesn’t have to look at it anymore to know what everything looks like in such fine detail.

Noiz needs to touch, he craves the contact of intimacy that he gets from the older man’s body, and the blonde’s fingers find themselves against Aoba’s waist as his body lurches forward, his mind struggling to keep up with the suddenness of the change that’s taken place, and it obviously startles Aoba, the widening of his eyes, the unhinging of his jaw with a surprised sound that races off his tongue.

Noiz becomes eye level with Aoba, his eyes searching Aoba’s face for something that the blonde doesn’t know or why he’s looking for something in the first place, but Aoba’s eyebrows draw together slightly and Noiz knows it’s a sign that Aoba is becoming a little uncomfortable with this close end stare focused so intently on his being that makes it difficult to hide anything from Noiz’s curious eyes, but he tries nonetheless and Noiz has to give him credit for not trying to back down.

Aoba had dropped his other hand when Noiz had removed his palm from over his while it was placed on the blonde’s face, more of forgetting to hold it there as his attention was caught against Noiz kissing against his palm, and it finds itself back curled under the edge of the counter where it seems to be the permanent home that his hand has made for itself there.

“You never did answer my question,” and Aoba finds himself startling at the sudden sound from Noiz’s body in this quiet atmosphere that’s been spun, lingering thickly, and he swallows, tries to find his voice somewhere at the base of his throat and air that abruptly tries to leave his lungs and no help to find his voice.

“What question?”

“If…” and Aoba hates it when Noiz purposely leaves his sentence hanging, when he wants to draw out the moment, stretch it too thin, “they would get jealous seeing you that way.”

It takes a moment for it to collapse against the side of Aoba’s mind with realization, and Aoba nearly swallows his tongue, his body ready to spit it up again without anything to help. There’s this blush that supersedes against his skin, starts at the base of his neck and climbing upward, and presses into the spaces of his pores and down to his skull and causing it to smolder beneath the skin of his face.

“Y-you—” and this is the worst time to clam up and words evaporating on the back of his tongue with only a residue of something weak left behind to truly tell how strong those words were in the first place.

Aoba can‘t believe Noiz would bring that back up again, thinking that it was somehow just some spur of the moment thing when Noiz decides he wants to forget all that Aoba has tried to teach him about filtering himself and not causing allowing some kind of monster borne from his words feed on his vulnerability that is the quick expansion and fragility of his feelings and mood, only increasing Noiz’s desire to see more of it, his reaction, his fucking embarrassing mood swings when it comes to things Noiz likes to let roll off his tongue.

It’s also an amazing feat that Noiz is able to switch the mood from its airy presence to a loaded situation that Aoba’s thrown by the speed of which he can accomplish it.

The entire thing is pressing against the bones of his chest and bends them, makes it hard to breathe, as he doesn’t expect this as, the entire room gone white with this light that doesn’t let him hide from Noiz’s gaze.

Noiz moves his face in, closer, keeping his stare leveled with Aoba’s own, tilting his head slightly, “it’s a legitimate question,” and he says it like they’re talking over some afternoon tea and a snack cake that his grandmother has given him, “because I can see the way some of them look at you,” and Noiz is back to leaning in, so close to Aoba’s lips but moves to the side, tilts his mouth away from the blue-haired man’s mouth and meets with the soft skin of his cheek, “whenever you come to my work dressed in anything—they don’t seem to mind,” and his mouth skins against the side, lips dragging warm and dry against the surface, “you could only be wearing a large, black trash bag and neon pink croc shoes and they’d still find nothing wrong with it.”

That causes a reaction from Aoba, mouth opening as if he’s got something important to say that nothing other than those leftover words that are too variable in direction to really mean anything something as Aoba thinks over that image, finding himself wondering just why Noiz feels the need to conjure him up in these situations, all while creating images that clash with the mood he’s going for because surely, no one can find that combination in the least aesthetically pleasing.

(But it’s whatever; it’s not like Aoba’s going to learn about Noiz’s choices of fashion etched in his imagination when Noiz himself has nothing to say when looking at his choice of clothing before Aoba was aware of his existence.)

With this distraction and Aoba’s defenses notably lowered, Noiz cranes his neck and his lips hover just over Aoba’s ear, his voice all breathy low tones and sultry baritones, “I see how they watch you when you come by for whatever reason,” and that halts Aoba’s thoughts and Aoba thinks he can hear the screech of tires and asphalt burned underneath, maybe they flip over and crash into a pileup in the middle of his mind to prevent anything else from passing—it certainly feels that way how fast Noiz is able to switch his mood lately, “and they follow you everywhere, probably wanting to see where you go just to get you alone with them.”

“Noiz…” and it’s a miracle he’s found his voice even though it's pathetic and wilted under all the stress of what Noiz says against his skin.

Noiz has become the director, he’s obviously driving this scene, and Aoba’s yelling and waving his arms and trying to catch enough of Noiz’s attention to change the scene and do some kind of rewrite as the crew looks on in curious fascination to see which one which one will cave.

It’s an unspoken knowledge over who will get the upper hand first.

“But you know what? You know what they’d find?” and Noiz’s hands are beginning to move, his palms sliding over Aoba’s hips once more, fingers pressing indents into the clothes Aoba wears, nearly pressed flush against Aoba’s body, only stopping to leave a small, indiscriminate amount of space between them, “they’d find you bent over my desk or pressed against a bathroom wall,” and Noiz presses the tip of his tongue against the start of Aoba’s earlobe and trails it upward, slow and languid, swipes over the shell of his outer eat and trails away the blue-haired man’s ear when he reaches the middle of it.

“And I’d be there, fucking you, owning your body, making sure that they see you’re off limits,” and it’s contradictory as Noiz had, no less than ten minutes earlier (Jesus, Aoba would think if he were sounder in the mind, it’s been that short of a time span since Noiz had pasted himself against his body, how many drastic deviances their [small] conversation has taken) had spoken of not letting anyone see Aoba in way, but Noiz doesn’t seem to let that go, he won’t give up on that small detail.

Noiz’s teeth find Aoba’s earlobe, takes it and tugs lightly before soothing over it with his tongue as Aoba tries to not squirm, finding it hard to collect protest from the depths of his mind.

There’s a part of the older man that isn’t comfortable with this amount of subservience that he’s displaying openly, how easily he’s letting himself fall into this weightless void of ever-increasing blackness and the bottom is nowhere in sight, there’s not enough light to see where it leads to, but there’s a part of his mind that’s trying to scream beyond the rush of blood inside his ears and the undeniable scratchiness of desired pleasure that eats away at the comprehensible pieces of his mind—it screams and shouts, pounds fists of protests against the floor of his mind to do anything other than let Noiz place his fingers against his skin in ways he knows will ruin him.

His body is never used to it, his entire being possessed by too much vulnerability that leaves cracks along the outer walls of his mind for all those little things to fit inside and through the stronghold to ruin his body from the inside out—something that Aoba constantly tries to avoid when faced with these situations where he’s the one in danger of losing control—it’s still so hard for him to give up this element of independence.

There are those times when Aoba thinks too much, when his head is filled with nothing but dust clouds and the ever-increasing pressurized touch of his thoughts that are weighted too quickly against the confines of his mind that he sometimes loses himself in this moment that’s supposed to be about another moment that takes place at the same time as the one that goes on inside his head. It’s times like these when he loses himself in that space until someone has to search for him and it’s usually in the form of hands that touch against his body, sink beyond the skin with a few whispers of sweet nothings in his ear that Aoba realizes that he’s not supposed to be getting lost inside his own skull somewhere in the darkened spaces he never really explores.

And that lovely thing that’s in charge of pulling him from this space is Noiz’s whispers of words that appeal so brightly to his body.

Aoba jerks when he feels Noiz’s hands slide down his back (when did Noiz get his hands onto that place without Aoba noticing? Oh, that’s right, he was drowning inside the waters of his mind), slips over the straps of the apron he wears to settle against his ass where Noiz grips, his hands now resting against it. There’s a follow up movement of Noiz pulling Aoba forward, pushes them (finally, fucking _finally_ ) together. There’s a supernova of gases and clouds and star particles all at once when their bodies collide, when all that pent-up static finally can be used and Aoba hadn’t realized just how much anticipation drains from his body, pools around his feet.

An utter wave of relief washes against Noiz, quakes his knees and weakens his foundation, unwinding muscles he wasn’t aware of that were tensed with this need to be touching Aoba bodily (he’s been focusing on those honey-slick words that fall from his tongue, watching Aoba, seeing his reaction, testing all of those little boundaries) and he wonders briefly why he thought it was a good idea to deprive himself of touching against the man in front of him, how all of that teasing, pushing, and prodding was supposed to drive Aoba toward an irredeemable edge has just backfired all at once.

(He thinks its force could impact his body hard enough to slam him against a wall.)

He grinds against Aoba, this force that coils into his stomach that Noiz wants to head to, obey the desire it feeds his body but he’ll wait, he’s saving all of it for the grand scheme of when all of this comes together.

Noiz’s face finds Aoba’s neck again, his tongue pressing flush against the heated skin, licks a harsh trail up Aoba’s skin, ascending his neck, curves under his jaw and circles around under the cerulean-haired man’s ear, stopping as he whispers, “do you think I’d let them see you like this?” and Aoba’s already panting, tries not to do it so openly, but he’s losing control. His hands have removed from their spot on the counter as they find the fabric of Noiz’s suit around his back more suitable to grip and Aoba lets them, wanting something to hold onto while Noiz rails against his senses.

Noiz closes his lips over the skin just under Aoba’s ear, pulls it into his mouth, and sucks on it in varying degrees of pressure, of suction, gauging how successful they are by the connotations that vibrate in varying crescendos inside Aoba’s throat, feeling it just under his lips where they press against the inside. He’s having too much fun with extracting these pieces of the older male’s voice, collecting them under the skin where his mouth pulls them toward that he’s not driving this any faster, he’s not doing much to alleviate the desperate pressure that’s been building inside his chest that he knows he’s going to need to take care of, he’s going to need to do something about it.

However, Aoba’s not on board with that, he swears inside his mind that he’s feeling too heated; he’s let Noiz place too much feeling inside his body and he has to give it back until he’s empty enough to survive without feeling like he needs to search his own body constantly to make sure he won’t have to worry about this heat returning.

His hands are in Noiz’s hair before he realizes, driven with coming up with a solution before he pulls Noiz’s head away from his neck, disconnects his lips from the sensitized skin there as he draws Noiz’s mouth near, desperate to feed back all this need to Noiz through his mouth to which the younger male happily accepts, connecting their mouths together again. Aoba pushes against Noiz’s mouth, Noiz mimicking the movement, fingers nearly clawing into Aoba’s ass with their grip, the fingers in the light-haired boy’s hair, and almost maneuvering Noiz’s head for better access into his mouth.

At the base of Aoba’s mind, he can’t keep up with how many times the atmosphere continues to change drastically, so heated one moment before it loses momentum, slowing down and it nearly throws Aoba every time things speed up to slow down and reverse.

But that’s an unimportant detail, becomes second nature, to third and no longer a concern as Noiz’s tongue slips against his own in tempos of increasing need.

Aoba’s fingers tug at the hair that fits between the slots of his fingers, clenching there, the strain put on the strands causing Noiz to emit a moan, swallowed into Aoba’s mouth and drinks from it, doesn’t do enough to quench the desperate and needy thirst Aoba has from Noiz constantly denying him the opportunity to be relieved. Noiz removes his hands from Aoba’s ass to move upward, pushing under the shirt that rests on Aoba’s waist.

He gets his fingers against the slight sweat-slick skin there, pressing down his fingers to trail around Aoba’s ribcage to connect with raised nubs of Aoba’s nipples, his thumbs rolling over them, pressing down before flicking against them with his nails. Noiz would pay more special attention to them, loving when he can build up to a certain point where he’d think Aoba could come from just biting and licking and all kinds of movements his mouth and fingers can do to them.

He gathers the hardened flesh between his thumb and pointer finger and rolls them between them, squeezing his thumbs and fingers to apply just enough pressure. His pointer fingers become stationary as Noiz rolls his thumbs over Aoba’s nipples, pressing them back against where his pointer fingers have stop.

Noiz feasts against the muffled sounds Aoba can’t stop, enjoying the feverish pitch that laces through those small noises and he wants more, he wants to shorten the frequency of time between each sound until Aoba’s throat split open with how much excess has become collected.

Aoba's disconnected his mouth, head tilting forward to rest on his chest and he breathes, open-mouthed, panting, his eyes finding where Noiz’s hands are covered by his shirt. Noiz stares back at Aoba, watching his face, with that half-lidded expression, taking in the glaze of the blush against the azure-haired man in front of him—an utter picture of ruin and destruction, unhinged in a way that Noiz needs ( _wants, craves, desires_ ) to see increased into the maximum capacity, and then some more.

Noiz fits his head into the open space beside Aoba’s neck, pulling at the skin again with his mouth, pushing against it with his tongue, slicks it with his saliva as he marks against it with his teeth, marring the skin, makes it blotchy with blood under the surface, waiting for the skin to be broken to escape. He moves down to Aoba neck, kissing the underside of Aoba’s jaw, licking at it, offering these condolences to his skin for reasons unknown. He mouths at the indent of Aoba’s Adam’s apple, molds his mouth over it and retreats, listening to the sounds that accompany.

Noiz removes his hands from under Aoba’s shirt to reach them to the smaller man’s shoulders, pulling the straps of the apron aside, pulling the front down and folding against Aoba’s stomach and waist, reaching for Aoba’s shirt and wrenching it from under the waist straps of the apron to bunch it under Aoba’s arms as he finds his mouth back on Aoba skin, kissing against chest before finding one of Aoba’s raised nipples.

Noiz pushes against it with tongue, makes sure the metal in his tongue passes over the nub, until the tip of his tongue presses against the hardened flesh before flicking his tongue against it rapidly before he seals his mouth over it, sucking on it, the suction so hot and tight and Aoba doesn’t really become aware of anything outside the heat and hot press of his boyfriend’s mouth on his chest. Noiz’s other hand busies itself with playing with Aoba’s other nipple, pressing his pointer finger down on it and using his wrist to move his hand and he makes circular motions over Aoba’s nipple.

Noiz pulls back with his mouth open as he watches a trail of spit connects his mouth to Aoba’s chest and snapping. The German then blows cool air against where his mouth was, watching as goosebumps bloom under the temperature of his breath on Aoba’s skin before he has to come back, needs to taste it again, resealing his lips back over it. He pointedly avoids licking the nub, content to roam his tongue around the areola, listening to the sounds spilling above him, the consistent pulling of his hair, how Aoba is gradually beginning to press Noiz’s face against his chest in some desperation to alleviate the building surges of pleasure that scrapes down his back and collects into his stomach.

His fingers circles around Aoba’s nipple faster before slowing down, decreases the tempo just enough to press down on it before replacing it with his thumb as Noiz’s finger lay flushed against the skin over his ribcage and the pad of his thumb circles over his nipple and continues that way as Noiz continues to lick at Aoba’s other nipple, his mouth preoccupied with how long he can keep this up until Aoba cracks and shakes apart.

Aoba can’t get enough air, he can’t find that medium where his body would even begin to compromise with him—there’s just too much feeling, too much heat centered into certain parts of his body, splintering all of what it touches, the surface ready to disintegrate under the dexterity of Noiz’s tongue and fingers and everything that come together create such a force that leaves Aoba too weak to resist feeding himself to it, sacrifices his own body to the monster that has been crafted of parts that Aoba is powerless against resisting.

It’s one of Noiz’s specialties that Aoba hasn’t been able to become tired of.

His eyes open and when he shit them, he doesn’t remember but his eyes find the sight that’s located nearly in the center of his chest—one particular harsh press of Noiz’s tongue against his nipple, the metal ball catching against it nearly forces his eyes shut again but he resists, doesn’t let himself give in, and his eyes seek out Noiz, finding the sight of Noiz pressing his mouth back to his nipple a sight he wants to look away from, not watch Noiz pleasure his body.

It still something that’s not completely settled with him, watching his own body react to Noiz’s touches, to every caress of his fingers, the push of his mouth against the older man’s skin, the way his body fits in with Noiz’s—he’s not used to it, he doesn’t have an interested in watching himself react.

So he tilts his head back, lets it settle against the cabinet, feeling where his high ponytail sits moving against the cabinet—it’s the best way to avoid looking at himself reaction, watching what Noiz does to his body.

Noiz pulls away finally, feeling his focus shift, placing kisses in a chaste manner across Aoba’s chest, moving away from Aoba’s nipple all the while he keeps his other hand occupied with the older man’s nipple, continuing to kiss Aoba’s chest. He moves over Aoba’s ribs that indent softly underneath, presses kisses against the skin as these small tokens of affection against the skin. He’s still aware that Aoba’s hands still haven’t left his hair but the tugging is lighter with less pleasure that tenses his muscles to tighten the hold in Noiz’s hair.

Noiz kisses down Aoba’s chest until he reaches the top of the folded down apron, his brow furrowing with hints of annoyance around the edge with how it’s hindered his movement downward, with his desire to paste his fingers against this piece that is Aoba’s body. His body isn’t alive yet, certainly other parts are just waiting for something more to happen, for more than just desire that interlopes against the edges of the perception around him, for something grand, but it isn’t about time for that part.

Instead, Noiz bypasses it, ascends back to being level with Aoba as he retreats his hand from Aoba’s chest, his fingers clasping under Aoba’s chin to pull him forward and connect their mouth back together. He doesn’t make a direct contact with Aoba’s mouth, having been off mere inches, but he takes it in stride, kissing the corners of Aoba mouth, licks against the sides before he fits them together.

The kiss is languid, less hurried, burning them slowly, spread through their veins to absorb into their muscles that already are ablaze with their own strain from repressed need and passion that either have been trading, feeding the other through their mouths and tongues and fingers that can’t stay stationary. Aoba’s arms come up and wind around Noiz’s neck as Noiz’s own move down, over the apron, grasping fistfuls of it and lifting it up. 

Aoba thinks Noiz wants him to take it off but Noiz only pushes against his harder and Aoba responds with him, pushing his hips forward, moving bodily against the other while Noiz’s hands push under the lifted material of the apron to briefly rests his hands against his hips and move to join each other hovering just above the button of his jeans. Noiz’s fingers rest on the button, putting a light weight down with the heaviness that is the blonde’s hands before his fingers catch the button of the older man’s jeans. Noiz’s hands are clumsy with desire, shakes too much to even be considered fit to handle anything, the care his fingers are capable are have withered away into a shell of what they’re capable of and it shows with every fumbling movement it takes to grip at the button of his jeans.

(It could be from Aoba being unable to keep still, unable to stop himself, hopeless in this trance that neither feels good enough and too little feeling that clash at the sensitive parts of his spinal cord and his body is too wrought with its goal to be relieved of this confliction that readily disables his mechanisms from functioning properly).

Noiz finally stops fumbling with Aoba’s jeans, finally having opened them and his hands seek the quickest entry inside, his hands pushing between the material, finding warmed skin before he retreats his hands circle his hands back around, thumbs slipping between the material of Aoba’s jeans and his skin, tugging on it, exposing the top of Aoba’s ass, the counter making itself known to his now-exposed flesh, the air-conditioned room moving in to touch against the newly-revealed flesh with cool fingers and palms of different temperatures, each causing a shudder to lightly brush against the blue-haired man’s spine.

Noiz doesn’t have enough effort in his hands to push down the jeans much, grunting into the kiss for Aoba catch with his tongue, settling for those jeans resting on the top of Aoba’s thighs but that’s enough as his hands find the firm flesh, resting against the warm surface, fingers making light indents into the soft flesh underneath his palms.

Noiz pulls back, licking against Aoba bottom lip, tilts his head as he seals his mouth back over Aoba while his hands begin to kneed at Aoba’s backside, fingers contracting, bringing Aoba’s hips closer while feeling Aoba’s partially-covered dick rub against him—he hadn’t pulled Aoba’s jeans down enough to completely expose him, but he still feels it, even with the apron in the way.

He feels the epicenter of Aoba’s need, pressed against his hips, pushed against the underside of the apron, and Noiz removes one his hands from Aoba’s ass, moving it to the front and fits his fingers under Aoba’s jeans, grasping him and pulling him from the barely-there confines of his jeans.

With that heated touch, that steady grip around his dick, Aoba has to disconnect their mouths, a hiss of air that soars passed the back of his throat and out his mouth too much for him to contain, for his body to focus on and it makes the decision for him, too fast on its choice for Aoba’s brain to really put any input in. Noiz’s hand is slow, lax around him, the touch dry and friction is too lacking—all of it piles on Aoba’s already-stretched self-control.

Noiz’s hand is loose with every stroke, every movement of his emphasized by the friction created from his dry touch, the touch hot with heat from Noiz’s hand that become trapped between their skin with no other place to go.

The younger man is openly panting, his eye are lidded with promise as his eyelids grow heavier, his body urging him to close his eyes and enjoy the touch he’s giving, of Aoba’s skin against his, the weighted feeling of Aoba’s entire desire that’s held in his hand, and somewhere at the back of his skull is the realization that he’s the one who can end this, he can destroy the highway that Aoba’s pleasure travels across to reach his body, he can destroy it and stop this entire flow.

Having that kind of power is heady, it’s almost some kind of life changing decision that Noiz still finds marvelous that he’s the one who is in command of being able to hold within his hands.

Noiz twists his hand, most of the movement coming from his wrist, from the head of Aoba’s dick to the base, his hand clenched harder, feeling the drag of skin under his palm and the sound that accompanies, that stifled noise Aoba tries to bite down on, have it collide against the back of his teeth to stop it but he doesn’t make it in time and it forces its way out his mouth, holding onto the breath that meets with Noiz’s face. Aoba’s breathing trembles inside his mouth from the suppression that Aoba takes against it, trying to control the volume his voice is raising to, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down, vaguely aware that there’s a sharp twist of pain from holding his bottom lip captive between his teeth.

Aoba’s knees are unsteady; they creak with the strain of holding his body up all the while resisting the urge to thrust into Noiz’s hand, wanting him to do something more than stroke against his dick with these languid coordinated movements because anything is better than having to be forced to stay in this one spot while he slowly chars from the inside of his body, unable to expel the heat that forces against the underside of his skin—it’s even worse that Noiz is here to witness every plume of smoke that splits through his skin, see as his body becomes nothing ruin.

Instead, Aoba wants to give back, he wants to not be in this role where his body is the only piece to receive some kind of gesture because that’s not completely fair. His body answers with the lifting of his hands, through the air that begins to feel heavy, muggy with the heat they both emit in this combination that is surely changing the space confined around them. Aoba’s hands are clammy, they shake with the desire that thickens his blood that makes it all the more difficult to keep them up, and his fingers find the blonde’s pants, fingers unsteady with their movements.

Noiz’s hand stutters in its barely-crafted rhythm on the smaller man’s cock, fingers contracting somewhat and the brief increase of pressure around him causes a burst of sound that scrapes against the back of Aoba’s mouth but it doesn’t deter him from trying to push his fingers passed the front of Noiz’s dress pants to push against the skin beneath and—it’s difficult to let his fingers take in the textures of skin and heat and all things that are offered to him from Noiz’s body when he hasn’t undone the button of the light-haired man’s pants.

Aoba tugs at his pants. Can’t seem to make his fingers work right with how much they fumble until he’s got a good hold on the front of Noiz’s pants, trying to synch his fingers with his intent, with the lust that that digs into the muscles of his body that all spiral out from Noiz’s hand om him makes it all the more impossible to really discern his capabilities and how to make them more efficient instead of this continuous pulling his hands only seem capable of doing.

Noiz continues to watch Aoba, a part of his amused with the frustration that leaks into Aoba’s features due to the struggles with Noiz’s pants, knowing he could take his hand away from Aoba’s dick and let his mind recover enough to make his hands more efficient, but where would be the fun in that, with those little nuances that Aoba’s face takes on, his expressions so vivid in their visual aid in figuring out the mood Aoba’s mind is enveloped in.

However, his mind falters on its tracks when Aoba is able to open his pants, fit his hands inside where they meet with the boxers Noiz wears, slipping between the elastic waistband and down his fever-like skin to brush against his own cock. The touch is a little clumsy, shaky with all that runoff pleasure that collects into the ends of the blue-haired man’s fingers, but Aoba gets a grip around him, could be construed as solid if it weren’t for the way his hands tremble.

The touch makes it harder for Noiz to properly focus; makes dividing his attention between his hand on the other’s cock and watching Aoba react to the ministrations being so openly displayed on his face, and it shows when his upper lip curls, his teeth grit together and his brow furrows with the heat that surges outward, filling the spaces between his ribs, collects into the hollow of his throat, all of it rapid in its effect.

Perhaps it’s from being deprived of feeling for so long, maybe it’s his own desperate need that’s being recognized and all the debris of other actions and decisions being pushed aside for the recognition of his own forgotten pleasure, or maybe it’s just Aoba’s touch that is exacting its own influence and power over his body to remind him of how much he’s susceptible to all things Aoba that’s making it harder to focus, to keep himself upright and projecting that image of cool collective that always held Aoba’s puzzlement at how much Noiz appears to be unaffected by the situation at hand.

Aoba tries to think what kind of rhythm would be appropriate—he starts with a leisure one, encloses his fingers around Noiz’s dick, the piercing there pressing into his palm lightly, and begins to draw his hand back, feeling the texture of those metal accessories that skate under his palm until he reaches the base of the head of Noiz’s cock before reversing, keeping his fingers loose. Noiz’s hand on him reacts, giving a faster upstroke before jerking back down his dick, this quick burst of air dislocating from his lungs too quickly.

Noiz moves his hand until he’s holding Aoba’s dick when he reaches just under the head, moving his thumb to rub the pad of his finger over the top, making sure to rub small circles, keeping his touch firm, and rubs his thumb forward where Aoba’s slit begins at the top of the head, getting his thumb to rub directly over it and continues to touch against that area.

Air pushes passed the spaces between Aoba’s teeth when he inhales as his body decides it’s the appropriate reaction to Noiz’s movements, causing his own hand to tighten, catching against the piercings under his hand and Noiz groaning, hips shifting forward for more of that contact, for more friction, more of that enclosed feverish sensation that Aoba’s providing him.

There’s sweat that’s beginning to collect against the small of Noiz’s back, the suit that he wears helping to harbor all of the excess body heat he’s been emitting. Sweat is also gathering at Aoba’s hairline, a light sheen of it beginning to contrast with the light of the room, as well as draw attention to the blush that’s spread around his nose and embedded into his face, watching this kind of fascination at seeing the blemish of that pale skin, so wrought with color, with feeling, with the affected image of how much he’s being pushed along by the ministrations of Noiz’s hand.

He doesn’t let Aoba know how much he likes to see the blood pulled just under his skin in these petal-like shapes that show just where Noiz has pushed most of his affection in the spots on Aoba’s body, like some kind of temporary brand that no one will ever miss, not with the color of Aoba’s skin, not with how fair it is, the smoothness of it thrown off kilter that suggests just what and how was there.

It’s the evidence of his existence that leaves itself known against it.

More so than what his parents would see (admit to) in their lifetime.

Aoba’s been through this, navigating how to work Noiz’s body over while utilizing the piercings that cling to the skin of Noiz’s dick but it’s harder to focus when Noiz is in possession of the same information and tactics that can disable all of Aoba’s defenses in the way he aims to do to Noiz’s body. Aoba twists his wrist, mindful of the piercings, squeezes his hand lightly, moving upward until his hand meets below the head of Noiz’s dick.

There’s another urge that crawls up Noiz’s spine, something of the same nature but different than the pace that they’re going with and his mind is quickly trying to articulate it into something he can understand, but his body moves faster, it reacts with more precision than what his mind can quickly decipher. Instead, his other hand comes to rest over Aoba’s that’s on his dick, knocks it away (there’s a strangled sound in his throat of protest at the loss of contact) as he removes it and encircles Aoba’s waist, hand resting on Aoba’s hip as he pulls Aoba’s hips forward toward his own.


	2. Chapter 2

Noiz notes the sound that Aoba makes, the surprise evident, and Noiz uses his hand to push back between their bodies, grasping at Aoba’s dick, the other gathering his own and he pushes their dicks together, nearly collapsing with this kind of relief that comes when they’re touching, connected, and he’s never used to that feeling, that connection that he can indulge in but now is not the time to contemplate that as he’s got both his and Aoba’s dicks in one hand, pressed against the other, can feel the texture of Aoba’s own hardened dick against his own.

Aoba thinks he’s going to asphyxiate on his own breath when Noiz connects them both onto one hand; the immediate feeling of Noiz’s dick piercings pushing against his own length, and it’s strange as it is pleasurable, with the contrast in touch and the composition of their bodies, and it borders on too much but it’s too little, like the synapses of Aoba’s mind can’t figure out if this is supposed to feel good or if this is going to be too much at once, traveling too quickly along the highway that is his spinal cord and passing by his brain too quickly to gauge what these signals are trying to tell him.

Aoba’s hips shift forward, causes his cock to rub against Noiz’s in the grip of his hand and Noiz emits a moan at the sensation, his hand almost tightening too much in an effort to stop it (or increase the friction against him, he isn’t sure). Noiz breathes and attempts to control the increasing rhythm of his lungs and their cadence of collecting the air around him that lacks enough oxygen.

When Noiz moves his head, looking up, his eyes searching for Aoba’s face to gauge the reaction, there’s a hand on his face, grasps at his chin and pulls him forward, neck craning to accommodate the sudden angle it’s oriented to, there’s lips that connect to his own, a tongue the licks across his bottom lip, air heavy and warm against his face, and Noiz opens for Aoba, lets his tongue come into his mouth to intermingle with own. He’s surprised at how forceful Aoba is being, with the way Aoba shrinks back from those types of advancements without constant coaxing and egging on, but nonetheless, he’s pleased, he loves it.

The older man tries to not think about how crucial his own body is feeling, how he needs something to remedy the pressure that builds into critical states, how nearly agonizing it feels with how long this has been drawing out, but his body is answering it for him, it’s making an uninformed decision that Aoba will have time to mull over later on and think about how things could have been wrong as well as a litany of words that constantly try to deny that he’s ever like that, but for now, he’s got a hand on Noiz’s face and one on the back of Noiz’s neck, pulling him forward, closing his mouth over Noiz’s after he licks against it.

He’s looking for the best outlet for the connotations that have been buried in the pit of his stomach in an effort to keep them from getting to his mouth, and he does when he pours them into Noiz’s mouth, the blonde’s tongue coming to collect them from Aoba, this kind of exchange in gifts that Noiz is eager to accept from the older man.

Aoba kisses against him with needy lips, his tongue wanting to gather the taste from Noiz’s body, swallow it down, take comfort in the scent of Noiz that fills his awareness, and he’s got this scratchy, broken record in his mind that plays the sound of Noiz’s name in his own voice that becomes louder, out of control. It echoes through the space of his mind, and Aoba recognizes that it’s the buildup of sensation and feeling and his body tells him that he’s yearning for Noiz’s touch, for any part of him, all of it from the simple touch Noiz gives him around his dick and connection of their bodies together with sweat that slips between the indiscriminate spaces.

Noiz moves his hand upward, feels the slide of his and Aoba’s cocks under his palm, the feel of foreskin moving with his hand, the electric shocks of pleasure that shoots through his skin, permeates through his body, and the hiss of air that brushes passed his lips from Aoba’s mouth. Aoba’s arms move to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, their chests pressing together, giving Noiz less room to move his hand but he can work with it, he work around it because his body is deciding that it rather likes this position and the lack of space for his hand to move on their dicks becomes second nature as the intimacy of the moment takes importance over any other discomfort that may be unfurl.

Noiz’s hips are moving, these small, jerky motions that push against Aoba’s hips, causing the younger man’s hand to tighten almost unconsciously. He moves his hand faster, up and back down, and finally lets his hips thrust forward, rubbing his cock against Aoba’s, knowing the piercings on the underside are pushing against it, and he smiles against Aoba’s lips when he can feel the tightening of Aoba’s arms around him, the sound of a moan that is weak when he swallows it down, the quickened breath or air that’s followed with a jolt of Aoba’s hips against his own.

Noiz is stroking them faster, starting to drive toward that one place that’ll settle over his senses and cause him this pure oblivion of which nothing else can pierce the awareness of his mind, and he wants that thick cover, his body beginning to bend under the need that is starting to rise in his belly. He breathes through his nose, unwilling to remove his mouth from Aoba’s just because his body wants to choose how much and when he gets to eat at Aoba’s breath.

Noiz places these brief kisses over Aoba’s mouth, moving his neck back to retreat from Aoba’s mouth every time he places a kiss on Aoba’s mouth before Aoba’s arms finally tighten, effectively stopping him from moving away, and Noiz lets Aoba connect their mouths again. Noiz makes a note to keep doing this as it seems to push Aoba into trying to match his rhythms, trying to give back—he likes it when Aoba moves forward with determination, even if it is to sever the teasing that Noiz takes great joy in carrying out against Aoba’s body.

Instead, Noiz leans forward, his body calling for more contact, for more heat to sear against his skin, to quell that consuming need to touch and absorb all that feeling that he’s been finally able to enjoy indulging himself in. His forehead finds Aoba’s shoulder, fit back into the space where his body has taken a liking to, and turns it, his mouth open, breathing, his breath hot and rapid with the expanding sensation that pools into his body from the connection that he’s crafted with just his hand acting as the circuit between his and the other man’s pleasures.

Aoba’s head falls back as his body gradually splinters apart with every stroke of Noiz’s hand, every thrust against him, his cock rubbing against the piercings of Noiz’s dick, the feeling of it different but nonetheless gives his body the materials to keep it ablaze. The back of his head meets with the cabinets behind him, effectively stops him from going any further, and the angle leaves his throat open even more, for more sounds to shoot up this now straightened pathway and out his mouth with better precision.

This also opens his neck to a better position for Noiz to get his mouth back on, his tongue coming forward to taste the sweat that’s collected on the exterior, rolls around his tongue, leaves behind this need for more when it fades away, the taste lingering in too small amounts that Noiz remedies trying to gain more of his. He angles his neck, moves toward Aoba even more just to get his teeth over the muscles of Aoba’s neck, feeling them tensed under his tongue, his teeth finding them resistant to the amount of force he applies when he bites against the skin, mouth at it, breathes heavy against it.

Aoba’s arms are useless, he can barely find reason to get them to function like they should, beyond the all-consuming heat that clouds his senses but that doesn’t stop him from trying, not really considering what they can be for—they’re back to climbing Noiz’s back, brushes against the fabric of his rumpled suit jacket before the wrap around the back of Noiz’s neck that’s still pasted to the skin of his neck, still placing his marks against the alabaster of his skin.

Noiz gathers skin between his teeth, pulls on it, gently tugs it with his mouth before he lets go, licking over it before closing his lips around the area, all the more pronouncing the marks he’s leaving behind, filling and tracing the lines with more force to show to show for all the work he’s laying upon Aoba’s skin. He can feel the tension in the muscles below his teeth, the sweat that comes forward to let Aoba’s body know he’s burning on the inside, he’s collected too much heat inside his body for him to function as right as he was in a previous moment of time.

Aoba feels every piercing that presses into his dick, every graze of them into his skin, into the hardened flesh caught between the blonde German’s hand, and he wants more, his body is almost begging with every hitch of his hips, the stutter in his legs, the quake inside his muscles down to his bones that are ready to snap with the tension his muscles and contracting with, and the force of it is enough for him realize he’s not going to last long, he’s going to end everything here.

With every movement of Noiz’s hand, with the force of Noiz’s fingers that roll over his skin, the thick-hot need that boils under their skin and liquefies their desire to travel inside their veins and be nourished to every other muscle that aches for it, that friction that builds, the tightness inside his stomach, Aoba realizes his orgasm has been crouched at the base of his spine with anticipation at its feet, ready for that moment of weakness and vulnerability that’s been superseding along his skin.

(He’s also aware of how limiting his jeans are, how much he now wishes he had removed them completely because his legs tremble with how much he wants to wrap them around Noiz, how much he wants them to fall to the ground in a heap of emotion and desire and rub against the other until there’s nothing left of their bodies as they wither away into nothing but coils of excitement and passion and all things associated with this feeling as if they’re nothing but collections of stardust and nebulous material that they’re giving creation to a new cosmos of life and energy and brimming with aliveness.

They’re lightning in the shape of desire.)

Aoba is close, Noiz can sense it with each breath of aborted moans, half-bitten off moans barely breaching the outside of his lips, and with each jolt of his hips as Noiz increases the grip of his hand’s pressure around them to keep them both from disconnecting in their efforts to seek more feeling and contact, almost sure that his piercing are rather biting into Aoba’s skin, and maybe it should hurt with the amount of force he’s thrusting against Aoba’s own cock in his quest for more pleasure, more ecstasy, and Aoba’s just not saying anything because words of sounds that are exact opposite of this will surely ruin everything.

But Noiz can’t help it as he looks down as his hand, turning his head on Aoba’s shoulder until his eyes meets the sight of his hand, at where their hips that are connected through his hand, watching as his dick slides against Aoba’s, coming up through the opening his palm makes for his hardened cock to slip through, watching as his own cock pushes against Aoba’s, watching the skin roll between his fingers, the small drop of precum that collects at the top of his dick, almost ready to slip down the slit of the head of his dick.

The younger man watches the flared head of his dick push against the other’s, the way precum smear against their dicks, not enough to make the slide easier but the sweat that slicks their skin makes it more manageable, and it’s a welcome feeling that Noiz wants more of. The orgasm is low in his stomach, a tightened sensation that leaves his body wanting relief, the stress of it lingering inside his body becoming a less desirable sensation that he begins to grow in desperation to be rid of.

Noiz’s eyes snag on the image of small precum droplets that lethargically leak over the sides of Aoba’s dick, most of it collecting into the slit of his dick, his tongue coming to licks at his lips that are so abruptly bereft of moisture, cracked beyond what he ever thought they were. There’s this phantom weight on his tongue that he can’t place the feeling but the urge is there, his mouth fills with spit, his salivary glands working to produce enough because his body understands this desire faster than his brain does.

And it’s when he recognizes this urge is when his body has moved long before his mind can play catch up, the world shifting upward and stopping with his knees hitting somewhere below his ears, the utter whoosh of air that scrapes against the inside of his ear and he’s realizing the loss of heat in the palm of his hand and his hands curl against the nothingness of the air. It’s when the world catches up with his eyes and color explodes out in a spiral behind his eyes that molds into the world surrounding his eyes as Noiz realizes he’s on his knees in front of Aoba, his kneecaps maybe throbbing with the force he’s come down on them to become leveled with Aoba’s waist.

In front of his eyes is the older man’s cock, reddened with arousal and curved upward, precum gathered in small, pearlescent drops down the head of Aoba’s dick, and Noiz stares ahead, his green eyes snared on the sight of it.

There’s a noise from Aoba’s throat that’s not quite a protest, too far-gone with haziness of arousal that clouds over his senses and makes it hard to think beyond the current situation that he’s been cut from the wonderful buildup of pleasure in his gut and at the ends of his fingertips, registering the loss of Noiz’s hands around him that ever so slowly was pushing him into an edge that he could never recover from.

Aoba’s realizing there isn’t a weight on his shoulder, there isn’t a tongue at the skin of his neck, there isn’t heat that flows outward and against his own body that contributes to kindle of his own soul inside his skin, and his eyes force open, seeing in blurry shades that condense into sharpened lines and colors gain back their vibrant hues and lifting his head off the cabinets to see nothing in front of him, not a stray piece of blonde that tells him Noiz is close to him.

It’s when his sight finds the image of Noiz on his knees in front of him with an intricate eye toward his dick does Aoba’s jaw unhinges and there’s a sound of something out his throat and shooting from his mouth before he has to the time to properly get his reaction under control enough to maintain it at a level that is surely more dignified and upright with reasonable emotions.

Noiz looks up at Aoba, his eyes meeting with Aoba’s own contrasting color and he moves, his arms coming up, his hands find the sides of Aoba’s waist, fingers moving downward, caressing against the exposed skin until he reaches where Aoba’s pants have been wrenched down enough, slides his fingers between the material and Aoba’s thighs and pulls downward, a slow, almost languid movement as he keeps staring up at Aoba.

He maintains this eye contact as Aoba’s jeans are pulled to his thighs and hovers just over his knees, presses his palm against the side of Aoba’s thigh and slides it upward, caressing against the skin, touching it with these soft movements as he moves toward Aoba’s boxers that are caught halfway up Aoba’s thighs.

The blonde pushes his fingers between the elastic waistband and pulls, slips it down Aoba’s legs as he keeps his other hand still connected to Aoba’s jeans, continuing to stare upward at Aoba. Watching as Aoba draws his bottom lip between his teeth, tampering down on a sound that will protest against this amount of force and sight against his face, his body, exposed to the study of Noiz’s eyes and every little detail unable to escape the his eyes from drinking it in.

Noiz keeps looking at him, noticing the way light shines through the window in flat strips that collide against the side of Aoba’s body, taking in the way the sun highlights these indiscriminate details that shouldn’t be important, shouldn’t matter but the weight of it, the sudden importance of seeing everything exposed and being able to press his fingers against the small spots of weakness and delicate material that combines to create it—Noiz can’t help it, he can’t stop himself from wanting to touch, from kissing the skin beneath his fingers so reverently and softly, so much better than what fragile sunlight can do.

And Noiz does so, leaning forward to press a small kiss to Aoba’s thigh, the exposed skin under his lips reacting with goosebumps that rise beneath his lips, following the heat of his mouth, raising as though it calls him back, wanting more warmth, more affection, the praise it’s receiving not enough with the chaste contact.

Noiz repeats it, pressing more kisses against the skin and flourishes with a lick against it, his teeth pressing gently into the skin, his tongue licking over it as though he’s emphasizing his affection, his emotion pasted to the skin just below, and marking it with his own, and there’s more presses of teeth, airy in its contact with the languidly-flushing skin below.

Noiz is aware of Aoba’s stare against his body, with way his critical eyes rove over him, taking in what he’s doing to Aoba’s body, the way he’s marking it, possessing it with these presses of his mouth, his tongue against it, his teeth that itch to sink into this warmed-over flesh that bares no marks or resemblance to something that is under the ownership of Noiz’s fingers, his possession, his complete possession of Aoba’s body. He wants, he wants to mark this skin, and he wants to destroy it with his teeth, his tongue, and his fingers, just ruin this perfect alabaster canvas that’s been so free of his own addition to this blank canvas.

Instead, Noiz pays attention to where he knows there are sensitive places, knowing when he gets close to them when there’s tensing below his hands, beneath his lips, and Noiz edges onto the outside parameters of these spots, kisses the edges, lingers his lips against it before he moves away, ascending up Aoba’s thighs until he’s reached the epicenter of Aoba’s desire.

There’s this tension that’s sitting in the center of Aoba’s chest that expands with every touch of Noiz’s lips, with every fragile contact his lips make with his skin, and it only serves to kindle the heat inside his body, the runoff that collects into the pores of his face and run over to drip down his face, under his jaw, covering his entire body until there’s no way to come down from it—it’s everywhere, it’s filling his senses, it’s trapping him inside this cocoon that he can’t figure out what to do inside.

Words of sounds that have no definite shape are climbing up his tongue, forcing through the laughable barrier that Aoba’s been trying to construct, all of them of a variety of desires and wants that Aoba doesn’t want to make himself go through, doesn’t want to voice them, doesn’t want to hear the intensity of those pent up desires that have lingered in his body for too long, for too much time to build into this force that makes his body shake, tremble, break apart but Aoba won’t let it come to that, he won’t do it, he _won’t_ —

There’s a sudden sound that unspools from his lungs and forces up his throat, slamming into the back of his teeth when there’s a breath of warm air that collides with his dick, blowing over his sensitized skin as he remembers that Noiz is on his knees before him, holding onto his body, fingers pressed into his skin, biting into it with light pressure from his nails,. And his eyes focus back in on Noiz’s frame before him, seeing how close he’s moved to Aoba’s hardened dick.

Noiz is looking up at him again, eyes seeking out something in his face, whatever it can be, Aoba doesn’t think about it, only concerned with how his throat his becoming a wasteland of too many words without shape and heat that trembles against the back of his tongue, tasting the desire that’s embedded into its shapeless structure. His chest is trying to draw in more air with every warm breath from Noiz’s body that meets against the skin of his body, specifically against his cock that’s been demanding attention, wanting his entire focus.

Noiz moves forward but halts, his mouth hovering over Aoba’s dick, and Aoba wants to say something, wants Noiz to move forward, do something to take away this pressure that he’s been creating with these light, too indirect contacts that he’s ben giving. He doesn’t want to beg, he doesn’t want to voice it, doesn’t need to hear how much his desire has affected his rational thinking, but he’s been bending too sharply under the strain of his need that’s coiled around his stomach, almost squeezing him too tightly.

However, he can’t stop Noiz’s name from sliding down his tongue and wedged between the spaces of his teeth, causing Noiz’s gaze too sharpen beyond the glaze that has begun to settle in his eyes, his tongue licking at his lips, opening for a roughened, “what is it?” that’s too gravel-like, so filled with desire. It’s a combination that Aoba hasn’t figured out how to stop being so affected by it to where he can control his bodily reactions but it’s useless, he’s known this, he’s known it for too long, but it still doesn’t stop him from trying to maintain some semblance of control, some kind of independence that’s not trying to lean on those sounds.

As much effort as it takes for Aoba to hold down his voice into some kind of faux self-control, his voice has no problem warbling from his throat, his voice nearly hitching with, “please, Noiz,” and he cuts himself there, not wanting to hear the affected level of his vocal cords.

Noiz’s eyes are lidded, heavy with lust, hands shifting from their position on Aoba’s thighs and relocate against Aoba’s waist, curving around until they grip lightly.

"What do you want, Aoba?”

There’s no shame in the grittiness that’s lodged in Noiz’s voice, letting all of his desire come forth and soak into the words on the back of his tongue, and Aoba bites against his lip again, straining against the desire that begins to char in his body from hearing the younger man’s voice.

It’s this part, the voicing, the sounds that he has to allow his body to emit to fulfill his needs, his desires, and his passion that causes too much embarrassment in his body. Sometimes Aoba thinks about it, how much time has gone by, how he should be used to it, how he should be used to the routine of encountering this type of situation, how often it happens, but that constant setback of still not being used to how much independence it robs from his body, makes it so that he can barely control his body that always throws him off kilter, it still hasn’t fully settled into him that he can let someone e else take care of him, he can let someone else handle the responsibility of caring for his body.

Aoba knows it’s not about losing the ability to maintain independence, control of his body, be the one to make decisions that he knows that is all on his part for affecting his body and not someone else, he knows it’s illogical to think of it as losing control of himself, the blue-haired man knows it’s not even correct to assume it to be even remotely like that—it’s from years of being the one to make all those choices, to be the one to affect himself, and it’s hard for him to let someone else be the one to take care of himself when he’s been doing it for others for so long.

However, here’s Noiz, on his knees before him, staring at him with that same kind of look that’s always been about getting him to let go, that’s been about trying to get him to ease out of his self-conscious displays of not wanting to lose himself and the control he’s finally got back over himself since that accidents that’s wiped his memories of his previous self.

But Noiz is here and that’s enough of a reason, that’s enough of a motivation to want to let himself be cared for by the one person in the world that will love him like this and be with him like this, but still, there’s that insecurity that turns into hesitancy that prohibits him from really letting go without so much coaxing to disable him so soundly in the mind temporarily where he doesn’t think about anything but the fingers on his body that trace all kinds of shapeless words of affection into his skin and into his soul.

However, now is not the time to be considering these somewhat life changing events when there’s a wall of solid heat just before him that’s comprised of all things that are most dear to him.

However, Noiz is unaware of the magnitude of these thoughts, watching Aoba struggle with himself. If Noiz is honest, he loves this part—he loves everything about getting Aoba to let go, he loves watching that cool collective be pulled from under Aoba’s feet and left to flounder a hazy world of desire that alights him to blaze across the cosmos, and he wants to achieve this every time, he wants to watch as he’s the one to witness this spectacle that’s held him so captive for so long.

The light-haired male pushes forward with, “I can’t know what you want if you don’t tell me,” and he knows how much that irritates Aoba, how much he doesn’t like to voice everything out loud, as though it’s going to ruin him against this counter, but that’s what the younger male wants, he wants Aoba’s body to break in a way that Noiz can care for, hold all those little pieces of love, admire the way they feel against his hands, maybe he’ll cut himself and bleed along their edges with how sharp they are in passion, but all of that would be fine with him.

(Besides, he’ll feel all the places they’ll touch, he’ll feel all of it, and he’ll continue to let himself bleed out his life force all over these little pieces and give every little shard back to Aoba’s body.)

Aoba breaks contact with him as he turns his head away, trying to breathe through his nose as those breathless sounds are pushing against the back of his teeth, scratching over his tongue in their efforts to escape as Aoba tries to calm himself enough for some kind of articulate response, swallowing down the words of his own need, “you know what—what I want,” and he’s still cursing himself for sounding needy, for not being able to get his own confidence to embed in those words.

“But what do you need?” and it’s impossible for Noiz’s voice to deepen, already clogged with his own lust, his own ecstasy that runs over his words.

There’s annoyance that leaks into Aoba’s stomach, mingling with the warmth that’s pooled there, and he turns his head back toward Noiz, a light glare etched against the surface of his features.

There’s a warning that comes in light undertones of his utterance of Noiz’s name, “come on,” and Aoba tries to sound in control, not enough semblance of sounding like he’s less affected that he can properly can collect from his body, the small amount that has already collected into his palms is just enough to sound somewhat commanding.

“But _what_ , Aoba?”

As much as Noiz wants to give into Aoba’s unspoken demand, let himself fall so deeply into the body that he’s been desiring for too long this week, he wants Aoba to say it, tell him everything, admit to him that he wants this just as badly as Noiz does, and sure, that brightness inside his body that threatens to split through his skin to escape is growing, it’s becoming too all-consuming, but Noiz is sure he can hold it off just long enough to hear those revered words he’s become so fond of fall from Aoba’s mouth.

He _needs_ that confirmation.

Aoba can’t keep ignoring the tightness in his chest, the persistent throb that’s been flowing through his body, the way his blood is singing underneath his skin, and as much as he wants to keep it, his resolve is breaking, splintering along the base that holds it up, and he somewhat gives, just enough to ease some of the pressure from his throat.

“Please,” and his voice sounds so small to Aoba’s ears.

Hearing that one small word, Noiz latches onto it with such greedy fingers.

Noiz moves one of his hands from the older man’s waist and trails it along heated skin and places it where his leg and pelvic area meets, lingering just beside Aoba’s cock, heightening the anticipation, looking to extract those words before he can do anything further.

“ _Tell_ me, Aoba,” and it’s heated, low, all of it sounding like a roughened whisper of heat in Noiz’s ears, and his mouth comes near, almost where his lips touch against Aoba’s skin, warm breath caressing against the Japanese man’s skin, and that temptation is railing against his senses, and Noiz keeps pushing with, “tell me what you need,” and it’s a snap against Aoba’s senses when Noiz moves his hand again, curling his fingers around his dick.

Aoba is almost ready to sob out his words of relief at that single touch but he quickly swallows them down when he feels that need in his gut sharply climbing his spine, filling the spaces between his vertebrae, and he thinks he can feel each single bone shift into a different place with how much of his desire collects there, enough to break him apart.

His voice hitches, he can’t drag in enough air fast enough to steel himself when, “please, just—” and falters briefly when Noiz slides his hand down his dick, the grip too loose, not enough pressure to do anything, and he cracks right there, thinks he can hear the snap of his spine, collapsing too quickly into his own desire without anything to stop him.

“Please,” and he takes a breath, “please, su—suck my,” and why is it so difficult to get himself to speak these little words, he Aoba knows exactly why, but he tries again, “suck me off.”

And that’s what Noiz wants and as much as he wants to drag it out, see what other words he can reach inside Aoba’s body to extract, it’s enough for now, it’s satisfying his need to hear confirmation, and he moves to position himself in front of Aoba, tightening his hand around the older man’s dick, and brings it toward his mouth.

Noiz places a small lick against the head, the bitter taste of precum on his tongue, applying light pressure with his tongue before moving away. There’s a hitch in Aoba’s hips, an aborted attempt to seek out more contact but even that small movement, Noiz feels it, knowing that Aoba is already too affected by everything to resist. Noiz places a kiss at the top of the head of Aoba’s dick, moving back before he licks again, knowing just how well these small, chaste licks are going to drive Aoba in a direction of utter desperation.

The blonde moves to place his lips against Aoba’s dick, covers the top and sucks lightly, cranes his neck forward to get more into his mouth until he reaches the base of the head and pulls off. Instead, Noiz lifts Aoba’s dick in his hand to lick at the underside of it, moving his head down until he’s level with the base of Aoba’s dick. He presses his tongue flat against the underside, moving back to drag his tongue up the length, sure to tongue at the slit of the blue-haired man’s dick, pressing his tongue a little harsher against it, probing harder when he gets to the top of the head, pushing his tongue against it, collecting small droplets of precum that has dusted there.

He presses his tongue against the slit again, traces the indent at the top of the head before he slides it down the slit, a hint of precum collected against his tongue. Noiz flexes his fingers, clenches down slightly, adding pressure, not enough to do anything, but enough to keep Aoba’s attention focused on him.

There’s hitched sounds coming from above his head, and Noiz looks up, his eyes looking for Aoba’s face, for the expressions that will be lodged into his skin, unable to be hidden from the search he’s honed in finding all those little reactions that he knows are near impossible for Aoba to completely stop. He looks at Aoba all the while he continues to lick at the head of the older man’s cock, feels each twitch of Aoba’s muscles below the placement of his hand that’s not holding Aoba’s dick, the tensing of muscles every time he places these near-insufferable strokes of his tongue, with every time the ball of metal placed against his tongues swipes over the sensitized skin.

Aoba’s trying to stop himself from becoming desperate, his body yearning for the hot, wet suction of Noiz’s mouth, but there’s that light dusting of frustration that begins to interlope at the ends of his nerves, can feel it moving down to the ends of his fingers, growing stronger with every teasing and unsatisfying contact Noiz makes with his dick. The hand around him only rubs slightly, only adds pressure here and there, not enough for what Aoba wants, what his body is craving, but his pride is trying to wedge between his vocal cords to stop him from begging, from allowing his voice to break over those words that his body wants let into the open air before him, wants Noiz to pay attention to and stop this fucking around that’s keeping him too far from that oblivion his body is trying to reach for and become satisfied with.

His hips hitch forward, strangled in its movement as Aoba’s chest takes quick breaths of air to calm himself but is steadily becoming futile. Just as Aoba is actually considering to make a complaint about Noiz’s pace, Noiz encloses his mouth around the head of his dick again, moving his hand from around his dick enough to where his mouth slides down his length, wet heat covering him, enveloping his senses and blowing sharply over his body that spirals through him.

Noiz presses his tongue to the underside where his tongue meets Aoba’s dick, sucks enough to where his lips are molded around the older man’s dick, pulling back with the movement in his neck as he slides his lips back, dragging across the head flesh that sits atop of his tongue, making sure his tongue piercing rubs against the heated flesh. Noiz pulls off, watching Aoba, his tongue coming out to catch at saliva that’s curled around the corner of his mouth, his eyes lidded as he stares up at Aoba, maintaining the eye contact as he leans forward again to wrap his lips back around the blue-haired male’s cock, languidly covers it with his mouth, lips stretching around the girth of it, all the while watching Aoba.

Aoba knows Noiz is deliberately being coy and it’s working against him, with every hot stroke of his tongue, that metal ball that connects against his flesh, which rubs at him in all the ways that causes pleasure to sear against his nerves. His fingers twitch, this phantom touch that lingers against them in remembrance that encourages his hands to seek out something to hold onto, whispers that it would feel so fucking phenomenal to feel Noiz’s hair slipping through his fingers, against the palm of his hands, and he could make Noiz stop teasing, he could stop Noiz from pulling off, his fingers could maneuver the younger man and make him take his cock.

That sudden turn of his thoughts jolts Aoba, but it doesn’t have enough power behind those low words to convince Aoba to carry them out. He isn’t too fond of where those words have gone, not liking the idea of forcing his cock between Noiz’s lips, of making Noiz swallow him down, choking Noiz with his cock just feel the flutter of Noiz’s throat around his dick—he can’t get himself to go through with that, he can’t imagine doing it even though he knows Noiz would be curious to try it out.

However, he’s broken from this dark-tinted musing as Noiz slides his mouth down the length of his dick, nearly to the base of his dick, and Aoba nearly shouts, sounds spilling between his lips from not clamping down fast enough, his hand disconnecting from the counter’s edge to hover over his mouth, pressing the back of his hand against his lips to stop the leakage of words that are shapeless and meaningless. Aoba presses his hand back harshly to his lips, his other hand clenching at the counter to stop himself from doing something, whatever that is Aoba isn’t sure, but it’s like this moral support that he can latch onto.

Noiz twists his wrist, making these circular motions with his hand over Aoba’s dick as his mouth slides back down Aoba’s cock, his tongue pressing against Aoba’s dick on the underside, ribbing his piercing against it, noting the jerky motions of the other man’s hips, the appearance of his hand that pastes against those lips that Noiz wants to hear more from, wants to know just how close Aoba is becoming there’s something that’s beginning to take shape in the back of his mind that he’s becoming all the more tempted to try out, wanting to see just how far he can tale it before Aoba is ready to collapse into his arms in this heap of too much feeling and senses that are too stimulated to handle anything more than what Noiz is willing to give more of.

The light-haired man pulls off, brings his lips back to suck at the head, ignoring the spit that’s run over his lips, more concerned with driving Aoba toward that place. He’s listening to closely to the connotations that escape from behind Aoba’s hand, a part of him wanting to reach up and remove it, slam it down against the counter and stop Aoba from letting them collect inside his mouth with nowhere else to let them escape, but he’s not going to move from this position, even with the pressure against his knees that’s starting to make itself known from the position he’s in.

Noiz swallows him down again, removing his hand from around Aoba’s cock, moving it until it’s placed on Aoba’s hip, and slides his mouth down Aoba’s cock, almost to the back, his nose nearly coming in contact with the hair that surrounds the older man’s dick, feeling his throat nearly flutter, his gag reflex trying to start up, his fingers clenching against Aoba’s hips. He pulls back, his lungs slightly burning, spit leaking over his mouth, coating Aoba’s dick, noting a hint of precum at the back of his tongue.

Aoba’s thighs quake, they shake as Noiz pulls away with the urge to collapse right there, fall to the floor because it’s becoming a chore to divert his attention between keeping himself upright and resisting the sounds that scrape against his tongue and bang against the back of his teeth to be let out, and this pleasure that assaults his spine and eats away at it until he can no longer support himself—it’s such a tedious task but Aoba knows he’s been too headstrong to step down, and he’ll keep it up until there’s nothing left of his body to continue.

Aoba’s eyes clench shut, trying to taper down on his voice that burns inside his throat, trying to come up, trying to trigger his gag reflex to let all of it out, but Aoba powers through it, tries to not think about how much his body is straining because of Noiz’s ministrations. He bites at the skin of his hand, wanting to take the edge away, the heat that thrums at the bottom of his feet that haltingly climbs his bones, settling against the crack that could possibly create shin splints in their wake, but either way it’s not stopping.

Noiz gets this curiosity that trickles leisurely across the surface of his mind and considers it, deciding the moment he puts his mouth back on Aoba’s dick, moving his hand back to grasp at it, slick with his spit that’s beginning to dry and places it back to his lips, a light kiss pressed against the head before he opens his mouth, sucking at the head, licking at the slit, gets it spit-slick as his own lips become messy with it, and finally sliding the length back in his mouth, beginning to suck, rubbing his tongue in places he can reach without having to reorient his body and position.

He pulls off, gets his tongue against the underside, licking at it and lightly scrapes his teeth along it, trailing to the base, just enough pressure but not enough to cause hurt, not in the way Noiz enjoys when receiving himself. As he’s licking down the length, he moves his hand up, gets it position just under the head, moving his thumb until it’s pressed against the head and begins to rub with it. He rubs at the slits, makes a flicking motion with his thumb, stroking up, down, and circles around it, continuing to deviate with those three movements.

There’s that fever-hot sensation that’s been gathering in the center of his stomach, the run off flowing into his veins to spread out more, and Aoba can tell he’s getting close, with every flick of Noiz’s tongue, with every stroke of the metal ball against him, the telltale jerky, uncoordinated movements of his hips that his blood is nearly screaming for, and he’s gotta say something, he’s got to want Noiz that he’s about to come, he’s going to cut everything short if he doesn’t stop.

“Noiz, I—” and it doesn’t quite come out when Noiz sucks him back, working faster, his hand twisting around his dick, tonguing at the flesh in his mouth, each movement causing his already unsteady body to crack, his knees nearly giving out with each stroke, every flick of his tongue, every inch of suction that’s around Aoba’s dick. He’s not going to last, he’s not going to make it farther than another thirty seconds, but Noiz seems determined, he’s trying to extract every piece of pleasure from his body for himself.

Before Aoba can get any farther than, “I’m gonna come, Noiz—” Noiz removes his hand finding his waist against and swallows him down to the root, his throat working over him, fluttering, and he hums around his dick, the vibrations being the last piece to snap Aoba under the pressure of pleasure, and his lungs seize up, a gasp that tears through his lungs, punctures them with its escape, and it leaves Aoba slammed against a wave of pleasure, filling every available space in his body, and he feels it, all of it traveling toward Noiz’s mouth.

He briefly thinks about that miffed feeling of Noiz practically choking himself on Aoba’s dick, how he wants to recoil from that thought, the idea that Noiz is probably causing himself pain just to fulfill his desire to see Aoba fall apart into some unrecognizable before all of it is swept away, and he’s coming, feels every piece of heat expand through his body so quickly it leaves him breathless, gasping for any air that is available, and the sounds that finally escape his throat from their captivity sounds too dull and muted from somewhere far off as white noise settles into his ears and white-hot oblivion settles over his eyes.

Cum flood Noiz’s mouth, the taste immediately bitter with salt, pulling back and off Aoba’s dick, but not long enough to where Aoba’s done coming, and some of it catches the skin of his face. Noiz is aware of a loud sound that had come from above, his eyes seeking out Aoba’s face, noting that Aoba had slammed his hand against the counter to grip at something, leaving his mouth open and free to let his voice come through. Noiz briefly thinks about those hands in his hair, those fingers gripping at the strands and pulling, using his mouth, pushing Noiz down of Aoba’s cock, force him to stop breathing as his throat is filled with Aoba’s dick, hitting the back of his throat and severing his body from all that precious oxygen he needs.

He wonders what it would be like, to feel the edges of his vision blacken, eaten away by this unconsciousness that interlopes against his mind, closing in, and he thinks about his throat fluttering, choking around Aoba’s cock, but unable to go anywhere because of those hands, the sting of tears gathering at the ends. All of it, Noiz thinks about as he swallows down the cum in his mouth, thinking about how his throat would feel, how it would sound, if it would be any more different than what it sounds like now, with his throat all fucked-out and hoarse, tired from the forced accommodation of Aoba’s cock.

There’s this niche in his chest that expands, heat coiling over his heart, and Noiz thinks that if he could just convince Aoba to do that, if he could get Aoba to understand that bright streak of arousal that pierces his chest where his heart is, he thinks that would be so fucking fulfilling.

There’s that wave of interest in his body as he continues to think about being choked on Aoba’s cock that it gives Aoba time to come down, to gather the shards of his mind and put them back together as best as he can, some too small for him to do anything with, but it’s enough, it’s just enough to allow him to form mostly coherent thoughts and movements.

Aoba opens his eyes, his vision hazy, remnants of his orgasm still clutching at his senses, his chest heaving, his lungs burning, but he’s well enough inside his mind to start producing thoughts, words, and everything is coming back to function on all its cylinders. When Aoba’s eyes find Noiz’s face that’s been looking at his own, he notices the remnants of cum on his face, and this best inspires heat to begin filling the pores of his face, and this sound that bears no meaning slips off his tongue before he can stop it.

Noiz’s brows furrow at this, somewhat confused as Aoba’s voice comes with, “Noiz, you’ve got my—” stopping as Aoba can’t quite get himself to say what the liquid on Noiz’s face is, and oh, that’s right, he did gets some of Aoba’s cum on his face, becoming aware of the places it clings to. Instead, Noiz brings up his hand, swipes his thumb across the spot on his cheek and everywhere else he can feel it stick to his skin before he brings his thumb to his lips, his tongue coming out to swipe against the collected amount on his thumb, licking over it before Aoba has any idea what Noiz was planning to do with it.

Aoba’s face contorts into something vaguely scandalized, his voice high with an unbelieving quality, “that’s so—” but Noiz doesn’t really care, continuing to give Aoba a confused look, and, “it’s what?” because Noiz doesn’t see the problem with it, doesn’t see why Aoba would have a problem with it.

Aoba doesn’t go any further, only sighs.

However, Noiz is still very aware of his own arousal, how his pants are so uncomfortable because they were both too locked into a moment dedicated to the feeling of each other grinding against the other, of short term pleasure that was built up in their bodies, and Noiz is still thinking about that one thought that had sprung forth in his mind as his mouth was too preoccupied.

Noiz decides it would be a good time to shed his jacket, nearly yanking at the buttons of his suit, deciding that he’ll just buy another one if it does rip, it’s not a problem as he’s never been too fond of wearing this type of clothing, and tosses it somewhere behind him to be forgotten about and abandoned, not caring where it goes or how it goes, only concerned with the building pressure that’s tensed inside his chest. Noiz removes his belt, slips it from the loops of his pants without much care, without considering anything else other than the need to get them away.

When Noiz has his pants undone, he starts losing the effort to be rid of them, only enough to slip them down his thighs as he stands on his knees, all the while Aoba watches him, unsure of what to do as his own pleasure has come and gone, orgasm that has been determined to stay embedded into his body having passed, and sure, he can get up and help Noiz out, he can do a lot right now, but his body is stupefying in how it wants to stay rooted to this spot and see what Noiz has planned.

Noiz’s hands are back at his waist, his voice low with, "Aoba, turn around," and sure, Aoba's a little hesitant, his own pleasure having gone already, but he complies, turning around, nearly tripping the older male because his pants are still pushed halfway down his thighs, and Aoba catches himself with his elbows against the counter as his body decides to lean over it for support.

Aoba begins to turn his body to look behind to see what the blonde German has in mind, but he stops when there are hands at his as, fingers biting into the warmed-over flesh, spreading him open, and some kind of sound sits atop his tongue, pressing against the roof of his mouth and he’s unable to stop it as there’s a tongue at the top of his ass that slips down between his cheeks, against his hole, passing over it and reverses its path of motion.

Aoba’s never tried to come a second time, he’s never considered it after he’s had an orgasm that’s moved his mind to pieces, swept the rest of it over an edge where he can’t possibly hope to get them back, but Noiz is here with his hands placed against his body, his tongue running over his skin, over his heated skin, biting into the skin and leaving imprints of his own presence against it. Nevertheless, he’s never considered it, doesn’t know if he’s got anything left in his body to come with.

Noiz spreads him further, his own hips hitching to find no type of friction to relieve himself of, almost too aware of the tension in his stomach, the way his dick strains, the languid leak of precum at the head of his dick that rubs into his pants, and sure, he wants to retreat a hand from Aoba’s ass, grasp himself and stroke himself until completion, maybe stand up and stop his knees from digging into the floor, and come on Aoba’s back, watch as he gets all of it on Aoba’s back, mark him with it, the entire show for eyes and his eyes only.

The setback is that it would require moving away from Aoba, stopping the idea he’s been rolling across his tongue and tasting just how sweet it would be to actually see it.

Noiz licks down the crease of Aoba’s cheeks, lets his tongue linger against Aoba’s hole, does this small push of his tongue but doesn’t breach, doesn’t go any farther and retreats, shifting on his knees to raise him to where he can fit his mouth over where the base of his spine is, mouthing at the vertebrae that ridges under the skin, licking over it before he closes his teeth around it. He sucks on the skin there as though he can pull the bone from under the skin, instead pulling blood to the underside, staining the skin there with its presence, marking the alabaster skin there.

Noiz pushes his face in, trails his tongue down, over Aoba’s hole, doesn’t stop anywhere near it, and licks down until he’s reached Aoba’s balls, swipes his tongue along the base, and then licks a flat, hard-pressed trail back up, collecting the spit he’s deposited around. The blonde tries to open Aoba even more, exposing him to the conditioned touch of the apartment, his nails imprinting into the soft skin, creating half-crescent moon-shaped marks, the bite of his nails intermingling with the pleasure that comes from Noiz’s tongue.

Aoba doesn’t think it‘s possible, he doesn’t think he can come this way, he doesn’t think he has anything left, but right there, right at the bottom of his stomach, there’s a collection of low, kindling sensations, weak in its intensity, but nonetheless there. He doesn’t have enough in him to really focus on it, to bring it into a fruition by himself, with his dick still to sensitized from coming earlier, noting it with every twitch of his hips as his dick touches against the cabinets below the counter where his hips are parallel to, each touch sending a jolt of too sensitive feeling through his body.

Aoba takes a gander and pushes his hips back into Noiz’s grip, noting the clench of the blonde’s fingers against his ass, trying to tell Noiz that he needs something more, he needs more pressure, he needs Noiz to touch other places, he needs his tongue to do anything more than this dilatory pace he’s been setting.

Noiz puts more force onto Aoba’s hips to hold him in place, a smirk half-curling onto his lips before it slips away as he hears the protest from the man above him, but he doesn’t stop, continuing his voyage he’s creating with his tongue. He swipes over Aoba’s entrance, weighing down on it with the tip of his tongue, flicking it over rapidly and retreating, watching Aoba’s hole reacting to his sudden ministrations, to the half-bitten groans that sound louder than what Aoba can do to hold them down.

The younger man moves in again, repeats the action with his tongue but finally lets his tongue push into the muscle, just barely, lingering, and stopping, retreating his tongue to cover the older man’s hole with his mouth, sucking as he tries to spread Aoba wider, just enough to fit his face into the space he’s making for himself. Noiz lets his tongue enter again, opening his mouth enough to shove his tongue in, wriggles it around, swirls it against the inner walls, listening to a breath the cracks Aoba’s voice at that, feeling movement above, noting Aoba is leaning over the counter, head hanging between his shoulders.

Noiz continues with these licks, swiping at every place he can get, and hums in his throat, knowing full well how much Aoba can feel. Everything is becoming wet with spit, running down his chin to drip below him, pushing as much as he can inside Aoba, getting everything so fucking wet, enough to make the slide of his tongue inside all the more smoother, wetter and more slick, breathing harshly through his nose against the skin in front of him, reflecting back into his senses.

Aoba’s so warm inside, heated to a point where Noiz thinks he’ll boil, and he thinks back to this small thing, this diminutive detail that’s supposed to have blown over his head months ago when he was first introduced just how warm a person, Aoba specifically, can be, can reach inside, and it’s supposed to have lost its charm but Noiz is still fascinated with it, he’s still enthralled by this little mechanism that’s an everyday thing—but to Noiz’s touch-deprived senses, he still finds it remarkable.

He wants to experience more of that heat, feel it around his body, get his fingers into it and feel all of what it has to offer him and then some more, and his body is moving before he’s even aware of this idea burrowing into the center of his brain to take control of his nervous system because he feel one finger on the underside of his tongue, hovering there. He retreats his mouth, his mouth still open, his tongue partially hanging out, and a strand of spit that’s the only thing that connects their bodies before it snaps.

Noiz brings up his finger, sets it against Aoba’s spit-slickened hole, applying a light weight against it. He only touches it gently, a small reassurance that there is something there, that he can feel it, that the heat from the older man’s body isn’t just some predicted sensory input that he’s thought about for years long before there was ever this bright blue being in his atmospheric location. Noiz lets himself linger there before he moves his finger in circles, feeling the texture of skin there, the feeling of spit drying under his finger the more he rubs at that spot, listening to the parodies of sounds that Aoba gives the longer he keeps his finger lingering there.

Noiz pushes his finger in, watch as the blue-haired man’s hole gives under the weight, not enough to slide passed the outer muscle, but he bears down on it just enough to hear that broken protest from Aoba, still leaning over the counter, watching his back heave, the blue hair still in that high ponytail that splays across his back and spills over his shoulder and onto the counter, interested in the way sweat is starting to slick at the base of the Japanese man’s hairline that’s exposed.

The light-haired man moves in, connects hos tongue back to Aoba’s hole, orientates his hands back onto Aoba’s ass, spreading them again, his mouth fitting back over the entrance, and Aoba’s voice stutters inside his chest, his lungs are starting to seize and calcify with how much strain is coming over his body. He can feel it, the buildup, the tension, the pressure inside his stomach, the heat running over his body and around his skin, all to collect inside the cavity of his chest to let him know that everything is coming together, that just more of this action of Noiz working him over is starting to mount, it’s growing, it’s starting to prove him wrong that he can’t come a second time, not with the way he is aware of precum starting to collect at the head of his dick again.

There’s a near guttural sound that erupts from the back of his tongue where it’s been crouched for so long when Noiz’s tongue pushes into his body again, swirling around the inside, eating away at the heat that’s being deposited so unevenly, building in places where Aoba feels it the most, almost overwhelmingly. The movement of Noiz’s tongue is enough to continue to char the inside of him, to help him burn and he doesn’t stop, getting more spit inside him, feeling it begin to drip down his hole, reaching toward his balls.

Noiz takes a chance and removes one hand from the other man’s backside, placing his pointer fingers just under his tongue, touching the rim where his tongue is currently pushing inside of, removing his tongue to coat his finger in saliva, not completely sure of this but trudging forward as he shoves his tongue back inside. His finger is back under his tongue, lingering before he presses it forward, just slightly, breaching, and barely any pressure before he retreats it, deciding that at the speed his spit dries, he’s not going to use only spit to lube the way for his fingers to reach inside Aoba.

He wants to do this properly.

However, as Noiz thinks to what he can use to do this with, he comes up blank, his brain is a barren silence that offers no kind of pointers where he can go about this efficiently without having to leave to go retrieve lube, leaving Aoba here to recover from the pleasure that is surely building inside his stomach. Noiz hesitates, covering it with more aggressive licks of his tongue, harsher sucks to the older man’s rim, thoroughly enjoying how Aoba tries to stop himself from being so loud.

This is a kitchen, surely it has some kind of thing he can use for lube, it has to have something that he can reach for without having to go that far, but Noiz hasn’t ever tried to substitute something for lube that has the same working quality that it has, he’s never really thought about it, he’s not tried to think about it since it wasn’t important, and whatever isn’t on his radar bears no significant thinking or exploration from him.

Noiz sees a bottle of oil on the counter that was pushed aside by Aoba much earlier in their endeavor, and he thinks about it, dragging his tongue across Aoba’s rim harder before slipping it back inside, the hitch of Aoba’s waist proving more difficult to keep his gentle hold on his ass, making him add more force to keep Aoba still, but he doesn’t have enough sense inside his head to collect upon, not enough to really form a coherent thought that would make sense to consider if it would work just as well as lube, not wanting to take the time to consider if it would no longer be slick enough to allow Noiz to fulfill what he’s been aiming for, and with that, he decides against considering the use of oil as lube.

Noiz removes his tongue, withdraws his fingers, and moves away from Aoba’s body, almost strangled with the sudden loss in connection to the other man’s body, as well as Aoba’s body expressing vocal displeasure at it, gasping, his lungs heaving, a cut off groan that Aoba has trouble holding himself together as their separation has affected the low pleasure at the base of his spine.

Noiz moves off his knees, face twitching as his knees ache at the sudden change of position, popping as the bones of his legs grind together with disuse, joints cracking as he stands. He hurries away from the kitchen, steps against the floor nearly thundering with the intensity of his steps and the speed that he’s moving at.

Aoba stays in that spot, catching his breath, his body still protesting the severed pleasure, his mind trying to repair the cracks and splinters caused from a second slowly coming orgasm that’s been welling up in his body, feels the most pressure at the base of his spine where it’s been steadily, gradually trying to climb and reach the top of his body, but there wasn’t enough of a push, not enough touch from Noiz, needing it the most where he’ll feel it at its greatest maximum. Noiz’s tongue just isn’t enough when it’s not inside him, touching against the most sensitive part inside his body; it’s just not stimulating enough.

Perhaps that’s another part of Noiz’s plan, Aoba thinks with barely-there consciousness and nearly unaware of his surroundings, as he somewhat contemplates what Noiz has been trying to push his body toward.

He’s never considered it, he’s never thought of it as possible since Noiz was always there with his fingers to provide him that extra touch to hurl him toward that wall, where he rub against every brick and scraped against his skin, where Noiz would keep him pinned there, feeding into his desire, pushing him against the fragility of it until he burst through it, the ground below too covered in darkness as he falls into it.

However, Noiz hasn’t touched his cock, hasn’t even tried to touch him in a way that would tell Aoba that they’re nearing the end of their shared connection; the blonde hasn’t tried to get him to come in the regular way that he’s been used to experiencing.

Aoba’s too caught inside the fading pleasure and his own half-formed thoughts that he doesn’t realize Noiz has set himself back behind him, the returning footsteps not registering with his already clogged ears and the white noise that plays behind his eyes, even the collection of spit over his lip and on the counter doesn’t faze him enough to lift his head to get away from the wetness.

However, it’s when there is a wet, cold finger that touches against his rim does Aoba jolt, the sudden temperature difference shooting through his conscious and jolts his body, moves it into gear, but not fast enough to clamp down on the noises that were lazily sprawling on his tongue that have abruptly taken off running down his tongue and out his mouth.

There’s hands a hand on his ass as the slowly warming finger circles his rim, pulling away before returning again to repeat the same action, the same pace, as agonizing as it is with the amount of patience that’s behind the movement, and Aoba’s body, already having been building up in tension and pressure and those other things that expand his chest too quickly, isn’t ready to settle down for that pace, wants a faster set cadence, want to spiral toward that peak of return now that it’s been proven that the blue-haired man can come a second time.

His body is a double feature, two entirely different sensations that climb through his veins, the conflicting tension and stress that eats away at his mind and body makes Aoba all the more helpless against these sensations, already combined with his thoughts that can barely make a coherent statement of understanding for his body to follow, he lets himself fall under the ministrations of Noiz’s fingers, his body unable to constantly put up a fight against these conflicting sensations, just ready to let the tension inside his body come to a fruition.

Noiz watches, enthralled, as he presses his lubed finger against Aoba’s hole, his knees beginning to stress again as they’re placed against the hard surface of the kitchen floor, continuing to watch as he begins to slide his finger inside, to the first knuckle, watching as Aoba’s body readily accepts his finger, there’s no resistance, no nature that can be considered Aoba’s body rejecting him, and he moves ahead, still watching as he begins to slip his finger farther inside, to the second knuckle until he reach the base of his finger, encased inside Aoba’s body.

He’s almost floored with the amount of heat that is surrounding his finger, the hot sensation of Aoba’s flesh surrounding him, with only just his finger submerged, Noiz can feel that longing ache that coasts along his veins, intermingles at the edges of his nerves; only further serving his desire to hurry along and press his dick inside, to feel all of that heat at its peak high, when Aoba burns the hottest, the brightest that his body will ever produce.

And he thinks about how that’s all his, how all of this composes together to create such a force, this force that’s like an Earth-shattering force, and there’s this dust of possessiveness that flares so brightly behind his eyes, it nearly incapacitates his entire being with how strong that feeling is.

Noiz is also more than aware of the desire that winds around his mind, around his body, his skin almost weathered with how much flows beneath his skin, with the amount that threatens to split his skin, let all of his vulnerable parts sink outside his body for the world to grasp onto, but more importantly, for Aoba to see, to see all of this personified desire that Noiz has been harboring for too long and let Aoba nurture it, let him take care of. Noiz is so sure that Aoba would know what to do with his feelings that are morphed into this desire, and he wouldn’t mind if Aoba didn’t give it back, he decided it was too good to give back—he’d feel fine as long as Aoba was the one to keep it.

His body is thrumming, all this gratification soaring through his body trying to push him along the desired path of fulfilling it, and Noiz is eager to satisfy it, but he wants to take this slow, he wants to let himself experience all of what he’s denied himself for the last week which isn’t long, it isn’t a lengthy amount of time between this and the last time they met like this, but it’s too much time for Noiz, it’s too much time between then and now that he doesn’t like thinking about how long it’s been building up.

He’s barely touched himself, his hips have been thrusting against nothing, feeling so completely unsatisfied, and Noiz wants to remedy it now, he wants to push himself as far as he can get inside Aoba, make a space for himself, a safe place that he can linger there and stay for the rest of his time on this planet and he wouldn’t care, he wouldn’t care if the world was a falling down piece of destruction and chaos that threatens the rest of the planet.

For Noiz, Aoba’s body is the safest place in the world.

Noiz twists his finger, swirls it along the inside of Aoba’s entrance, listening to the reactions Aoba’s body is making, to the vocal enjoyment, to the disappointed tone that Noiz isn’t doing anything more. There’s this urge at the end of his fingers, nearly burns the tips, all of it calling for him to touch himself, to push his hands inside his pants and curl around himself, let his body synch up the sensations they’re both feeling, create a connection that they both can feel from and allow their bodies to connect with.

Noiz is curling his finger, twists his wrist, pushing his finger in as far as he can get it, pulling back before he repeats it, watching the quake in the older man’s legs, how unsteady they’re becoming, thinks that maybe Noiz should do something, he should help Aoba stand steady or collapse into himself, and that idea, the very thought of more closeness has the younger man interested in it.

Aoba doesn’t focus on anything but the finger that’s pressing inside him, that slight feeling of fullness that his body nearly lusts for, wants more of, knowing that Noiz’s fingers just isn’t enough, ready to tell Noiz that it’s not enough, he needs more, he wants more, his body is calling for more of these sensations that are incapacitating his thought process and clouds over his ability to make decisions that it’s hard to give his body what it desires, what it craves more of.

Nonetheless, there’s an arm at his waist, encircles it, a flat surface pressed against his back, that arm moving upward and lifting him from the counter’s surface, and his world shifts, he becomes upright, his eyes opening to catch sight of the rest of his world shifting, and he moves his head, looking for what’s moved him from his previous position.

He doesn’t have an opportunity to contemplate what has shifted his body when there’s fingers around his chin, craning his neck, as gasp on his lips when that finger inside him thrusts up, moving in circular motions, all of that sound his throat emits being swallowed down by a mouth on his. The angle is somewhat awkward, puts a strain on the muscles in the blue-haired man’s neck, but it doesn’t matter, Aoba can overlook that discomfort as he readily lets Noiz’s tongue into his mouth, lets his mouth close over Noiz’s. Noiz’s fingers help to orient the small man’s head to make reaching his mouth easier, slipping his tongue into Aoba’s mouth, intermingling with it as they both collect each other’s tastes.

They’re both trying to get into the other’s mouth as far as possible even with the hindrance of the position they’re in, all the while Noiz’s finger inside Aoba makes it harder to focus for Aoba, continuously torn between the heat of Noiz’s mouth, his tongue that caresses his own, the metal that clicks against the roof of his mouth, against his teeth, and the sensation of Noiz burying into him, the way his fingers touches against places he didn’t know he missed, with Noiz’s presence finally filling that space left behind after this week long deprivation of nothing from the younger man.

His body feels like it’s shifting, like something he’s missed is finally being allowed to return and the weight of the relief is so heavy on his body, weighs him down so intensely that Aoba thinks he could sob with the amount of relief that’s been released inside his body.

The contact between them has Noiz’s hips pushing forward, grinding but trying to not bump into his hand that’s wedged between their bodies, making it difficult for him to do anything which only serves to make him more frustrated, yearn for more contact, for relief to his dick that’s been so fucking hard that Noiz thinks he could come if Aoba even looked at him in a certain way, and it makes his patience wear thin.

Noiz pulls away from Aoba, regretting how he set the lube on the ground, sparing a quick movement of his body to bend over to pick it up to add more lube to his fingers, leaving Aoba gasping above him, trying to gather his bearings, but soon enough, Noiz returns, grasping at the smaller man’s chin and angling their mouths back together as Noiz gets his point and middle finger pressed against the blue-haired man’s entrance, rubbing there, circling the muscle before he pushes them inside, the slide so easy, the younger man marveling at the easy way Aoba’s body is accepting his fingers.

Aoba’s breathing heavily, his breath grating against Noiz’s lips when he pulls back to breathe, coming back as he can’t get enough of the other’s mouth. Their kisses become sloppy; they lose their finesse, their drive toward any direction as it becomes a mix of sloppy coordination and spit that leaks between them. They’re legs become unsteady, the amount of heat the rockets between them should be unreal, it should be melting their bones and charring their flesh. But it only serves as a beacon, to give more way to allow pleasure to build between them.

Noiz’s fingers twist, they push against Aoba’s inner walls, pressing against all these places that nearly make Aoba collapse against Noiz, and they’re relentless with their touch, with the sensation they draw from Aoba’s body, the responses to these touches nearly overloading Aoba’s ability to focus on kissing Noiz.

But Noiz’s fingers twist upward, they curl into a certain direction, and there, right there, they touch against that spot inside Aoba that makes stardust blow against his senses, caught in brightness and sheer amount of energy it releases against his body, his bottom jaw unhinging to gasp into the kiss, all the while Noiz’s hand disconnects from his jaw, moving down to touch his neck, brushing over his chest, traveling across the shirt that still clings to his skin with sweat from Aoba’s body, and wedging underneath the shirt, drawing It up with the movements of his hand as his fingers find Aoba’s nipples once more.

Aoba compensates for Noiz’s hand leaving his jaw as he brings one of his own up, fingers curving under the blonde’s chin and angling his mouth back, not ready to stop kissing Noiz. Every so often, Aoba makes a sound that is swallowed down by Noiz’s mouth, greedy in its intent to collect everything that Aoba can produce, keep for his own in the face of his own blinding greedy nature to be the only one to receive such a reaction. Noiz, too, makes moans of appreciation, the sound traveling through Aoba’s lips.

Noiz continues to press against his prostate, fingers rubbing quickly before they lose their speed, becoming a movement that doesn’t resemble its previous pace before they increasing intensity, continuing to keep Aoba on this edge that he can’t get away from without Noiz’s help. Noiz then gathers his energy in his wrist and creates the most movement there, shoving his hand upward, his fingers rubbing harshly against that one spot that makes Aoba tear his mouth away, his voice splintering on the way up his throat, Noiz taking the moment to mouth at Aoba’s neck, tonguing against the surface, salt sharp at the end of his tongue.

Noiz presses at his nipple, pointer finger and thumb rubbing it between the pads of his fingers, pinches at it almost too harshly but Aoba doesn’t care, he’s far beyond caring, just wants to get to that point where he’ll fall into that pit of no return.

He’s so close, he’s _almost_ there, but he needs more, he needs Noiz to get a hand on his dick but both are too preoccupied so Aoba decides to get himself there with barely-connected thoughts that his body hardly understands but is enough for compliance, reaching a hand toward his dick but the pressure around his nipple disappears, suddenly replaced against his wandering hand, nearly slams it against the counter, upheaving Aoba’s thoughts, his eyes finding where his hand has been pinned to the counter.

“ _No_ ,” comes a sharpened voice of lust and command, “you’ll come when I say you do,” and that nearly makes Aoba whine with protest if he had enough of his voice to create such a sentence.

Noiz heard himself say that, he heard what his voice spoke, but he doesn’t actually have any intention of making Aoba come right now, he’s go other plans than to use one of Aoba’s orgasms to make him come on Noiz’s fingers as tempting as that sounds.

He’d rather Aoba come untouched around his dick.

Noiz pulls his fingers out, the sound of them leaving Aoba’s body so loud in this otherwise silent room, save for their breathy pants and these half-bitten sounds that come near incoherent from their throats. Aoba body can’t react quick enough to stop Noiz’s fingers from leaving his body, leaving this sensation of emptiness his body despises but can’t figure out how to get Noiz to come back, give him those fingers back.

The older man is vaguely aware of his body’s reactions, of hi voice hardly being able to be detained inside his throat and at the bottom of his stomach, and he’s keenly aware that if he were in any other state of mind, he’d disapprove of these reactions, he’d try to build himself up with this kind of self-restraint to stop his body from forging on like this, but Aoba’s body is too caught up in the sensation of an aborted orgasm, just so close within his grasp, his world upended with just simple movements that leave too desperate against the backdrop that is Noiz’s body, that solid reassurance behind that only serves to make him all the more burned up inside.

Aoba’s name is a litany of heat from Noiz’s tongue, slides so quickly off his tongue and collects against the skin of his shoulder, Noiz’s mouth finding the skin of his neck again, mouthing at it, unable to gather enough of himself to close his teeth around it like he’s become so fond of doing, too busy with his hands that tremble too much, that nearly drops the lube—he does drop the lube when he has enough in his hand, fingers even more unsteady when he finally coats his dick, gritting his teeth, the sheer supernova in his stomach shearing his skin, the feeling that assaults his nervous system almost too much, nearly causes his legs to snap under its weight as he touches himself to lube his cock.

He almost comes then, his restraint bends too dangerously, and for a moment, Noiz thinks he will come, ruin the entire moment with his inability to control his body’s reactions, the stimulus too much—he’s coming down, he’s losing that intense shock of feeling against his already too-wound up body, breathing, needing more oxygen as his blood becomes greedy in needing it.

Noiz shifts, moves himself until he’s steady behind Aoba, grasping himself and molds his chest to Aoba’s back, vaguely aware of his shirt not having been removed, that neither of them have removed their pants, only wrenched down just enough for the right amount of contact, but that’s becoming an unimportant detail, none of it matters, not when he’s got Aoba in front of him, with his body like a furnace that’s almost too much against his own sweat-slick, clammy skin.

Noiz presses his forehead against Aoba’s shoulder, his hand coming to rest against the other man’s waist, positioning his cock against Aoba’s hole, feeling the muscle against the head of his dick, and god, he wants to push in, he wants to thrust all the way in, get as far as he can inside Aoba’s body and relish that heat he knows is there, but he waits, he stops, the sensation of needing to come almost too strong—he needs a moment, he needs to calm down.

Aoba doesn’t seem to understand Noiz’s own difficulties, pressing back against him, trying to give enough encouragement for Noiz to push inside, to fill him, making him choke on it, feel it pressing against the back of his throat, but Noiz doesn’t go any further.

“Noiz, please, I—” and oh, is that his voice, Aoba somewhat thinks about, that roughened, near whisper of his voice that is almost too cracked, too different than what his normal voice sounds like.

Noiz shudders behind him, feels it magnified even between the sweat-slickened textures of their clothes, breathing harshly into his ear, the hot breath sliding across his skin, the perspiration there magnifying the sensitivity there, and he feels Noiz’s mouth shift against his neck, grazing his skin, moving to his ear, words of, “what, Aoba?”

Those words are nearly a snap to Aoba’s self-preservation (what’s left), that familiar irritation that leaks down his throat at the mere obstacle of being denied any longer, and as much as he wants to give in, as much as Aoba wants to scream into Noiz’s mouth and demand with his fingers, he can’t quite get it right, his tongue tripping over the words, “just—Noiz, _please_ ,” and everything else that fritters into his mind of _more_ , and that endless _please, please, please_ , that nearly bursts his entire being.

He doesn’t know if it works, knowing just how much Noiz likes to hear him voice what he wants, what he needs, but this seems to be a merciful time in Noiz’s mind, his mind short circuiting when he feels the pressure increase at his hole, where he think he can feel every slide of Noiz’s dick making small headway inside him. It’s slow; it’s too controlled for what the atmosphere around Noiz’s body is permitting.

His hole stretches over the head of Noiz’s dick, slowly, contouring to its shape, and Aoba tries to push back, get Noiz to thrust his cock into him faster, already on edge from a severed orgasm and his body’s relentless cacophony of its own need, the stress of being held off for so long depleting his control, and it’s encouraging for the younger man, pushing upward, and Aoba could cry with how Noiz slides inside him, feeling each inch of Noiz entering him, the slickness of the lube making it an easier access.

Aoba leans forward on the counter, needing support, his arms shaking, his body trembling with the relief of Noiz finally inside him, the rush of it nearly whitening out his senses, the dull roar of blood inside his head the crashes against the inside of his skull nearly deafening. He can feel all of Noiz, every small detail, the piercing that his walls have contoured around—every minute detail that he’s never really stopped to think about, all those times when he and Noiz had just connected their bodies, he actually takes the time to understand all the textures his body experiences through this contact.

Noiz’s head rests against the top of Aoba’s back, nearly between his shoulder blades as Noiz tries to collect himself, tries to get himself together into one place before his body breaks apart and he hasn’t even gotten to letting himself feel Aoba’s body around him. He doesn’t want it to end right now, right here before anything has even started, before he’s gotten a chance to indulge himself in this body that he’s been deprived of for some time.

And right there, all that head the blue-haired man houses, all of it that’s been steadily amassing inside him, all of it explodes over Noiz’s senses, rushes against his body in a speed that he thinks should be impossible, the sheer amount of it barreling into him with a force that robs his lungs of air, stutters his breath inside his throat, and all those other metaphors about leaving him winded and unable to resist the sensations of Aoba’s body.

Aoba breathes open-mouthed, aware of Noiz’s position behind him, head placed on his back, the way Noiz’s fingers grip at his waist, how he’s so fucking full because of Noiz, filling his senses, all the blank spaces not used up by his own trembling need ready to split his skin, all of it, accumulated into a near sensory overload but yet, it’s still not enough, he still needs that coaxing from Noiz’s body.

Noiz breathes against Aoba’s back, somewhat regrets not having removed Aoba’s shirt so he can feel the way that sweat-covered skin contrasts against his own, feel the texture of it, collect the salt that lays there with his tongue and taste it, let it roll around his tongue until he’s comfortable with letting it go, but he’s more concerned about the constant clench of Aoba’s around his dick, the way the smaller man is squeezing his dick, the surrounding touch almost enough to make him want to abandon his self-control and come there, barrel on toward that higher place of pleasure.

Noiz steadies himself, his hands finding the counter, gripping at them as he boxes in Aoba’s body, his head lifting from Aoba’s back, his breathing choppy, uneven, but he needs something more, something more verbal, and his body finds the effort beyond the fractured pieces of his mind, “are you alright?”

Aoba is almost too busy trying to push himself to breath, to let the temporary pain of being stretched to pass, leaning on his elbows almost too harshly, pressed against the countertop to where it feels like it’s biting back at his elbows, but it doesn’t stop that one little question from getting inside his ears. With a steady breath, a brief grit of his teeth, and he finally answers with, “yeah—I’m… good,” and really, he is good, he’s more than good—he’s _okay_ and that’s all that matters.

That little confirmation, that assured sentence has Noiz letting loose a breath that had been stressing his lungs, and Noiz lets his hips move forward, his teeth mashing together at the surge of lust that flashes up his spine, feeling his cock withdrawing from Aoba’s body, feeling the grip Aoba’s muscles have against his dick. He (tries to) steadies his breath, needing to control his own bodily reactions to stop himself from coming too quickly after that deprivation period of nothing.

Aoba nearly gasps, his voice guttural with the slide of Noiz’s dick inside him, those piercing smearing against his inner walls, the way they grind in such a distinct way against him has the younger man’s legs trembling again, the way his arms tense at the way Noiz’s dick nearly leaves his body, and for a brief moment, he fears Noiz will retreat from his body, not interested in fucking him against the counter of their own apartment as some part of his brain the more unimportant parts whispers how that’s ludicrous, that’s something that won’t (can’t) happen. He’s being illogical, he’s being dramatic, but with his body’s tension from being held off for so long, the mere idea of not being allowed to come takes priority over every other logical facility of his body.

Aoba pushes back as Noiz comes forward, both drawing a gasp from the other, the slide of Noiz’s dick inside him so good, the slickened walls that clench at Noiz’s dick providing him this good friction, this irresistible sensation that blows over his senses so sensually. Noiz thrusts forward again, a little more force behind it, assured that Aoba isn’t in pain anymore from being stretched and accommodating his length and his front meets with Aoba’s ass, unable to go any farther and retreating.

The light-haired man continuous this pace, trying to build up to something more bearable, but still holding off, not until he sees Aoba beginning to meet with him, see Aoba participate as it’ll assure him that Aoba really isn’t in pain, as much as he was just thinking about it just moments previously.

One of Noiz’s hands displaces itself from the counter, winding its fingers around Aoba’s hips, fingers clenching there against the material already there, needing a hold on something more steady—the counter is the most steady piece that either of them can hold onto but their minds aren’t in the right places to surmise that is the best thing they could hope for to hold onto for support, but they’re too under the guise that the other’s body is the best thing to hold onto, as much as that would contradict their seeking for a more steady support.

Aoba is thrusting his hips back, seeking more friction, more of Noiz’s dick to be inside him, more of those piercing that rub against the inside so fucking deliciously, thrusting back a little too fast that catches Noiz off guard, a groan unhinging from the inside of his chest somewhere. The movement of the younger man’s dick inside Aoba is almost exquisite, just under that level with the pace that has been set, and Aoba’s become mission-oriented in seeking its orgasm that it lost minutes prior to this.

Noiz’s hand tightens on Aoba’s hip as he pulls Aoba back toward him, impaling the blue-haired male on his dick, grinding against Aoba’s ass, nearly rutting into the flesh before him in his desire to get as far as he can into Aoba’s being. Aoba’s voice severs, but not quick enough to catch the groan of approval from climbing out his mouth nearly unnoticed, but that doesn’t deter him from seeking out more ecstasy that Noiz has been giving his body.

Noiz is thrusting faster, the clutch around his dick growing stronger, pulling him in every time he retreats to pull himself back and nearly takes away all the effort having to thrust forward with the speed it’s trying to draw him in. The piercings are steadily a factor that drives Aoba’s mind into this hazy atmosphere, stops him from completely thinking about the connotations that are starting to steadily leak into his mouth and over his tongue, the taste still awkward but becoming more forgettable and weakened.

Noiz looks through the sweat that’s trying to cloud his vision and finds the image of Aoba’s back with his blue shirt clinging to his frame, messy with wrinkles from previously wrenching it upward to reach at Aoba’s nipples underneath, and he is finding himself wishing that he had removed it earlier so he can watch the muscles underneath the skin work, watch as Aoba twists on his dick, those back muscles flexing as he takes a breath, but it’s too late for his effort, for wanting to remove his fingers from Aoba’s waist because that means breaking contact that he has no want in doing so.

They’re moving faster, Aoba unable to focus on anything but the feeling of Noiz’s dick inside, the way it slides against his walls, the slickness of it, the feeling of being filled, split open on Noiz’s dick. There’s feeling that’s starting at the base of his spine, horded there as his body is getting ready for its second climax, one of which starts this broken record-like speech of Aoba needing to hurry up, that this sweetness that licks at each vital part of his body needs to finally rid before his body is somehow damaged by this too good of a thing.

Noiz leans forward, his front molding to Aoba’s body, his mouth near Aoba’s ear, feeling strands of Aoba’s hair from the ponytail under his forehead. He breathes, open-mouthed, panting for air, fingers almost too tight on Aoba’s waist. He’s thrusting with more force, Aoba feeling the effects as his hips begin to knock into the counter but he’s not bothered by it, too swarmed by the joyous feeling of Noiz fucking into him, getting his dick so deep inside him, trying to fit inside and make an eternal resting place for his body to lay down to rest in.

Aoba’s voice is a warble of sounds that express just how much he’s enjoying this, with every movement of the younger man’s dick inside him, the way Noiz’s dick is forcing his body to accept and contour around him, becoming used to the routine that is steadily burning through his body, leaving it a kind of wasteland, but that doesn’t matter, none of it matters—as long as there’s that feeling, that one thing Aoba’s body feast on, nourished from what it receives, Aoba could care less inside this moment of utter sensation that eats away at all the proper parts of his mind, it doesn’t matter, none of it does.

Noiz wants more; he wants utilize this movement, and in doing so, his hands answer for him, move up Aoba’s chest, pulling the smaller man’s back toward him, colliding against his chest. Noiz raises up almost on his toes, thrusting upward as the angle changes, wrapping one arm around Aoba’s chest, the other twisting to wrap around Aoba’s waist as best it can with the angle change, hugging the other close to him, as hard as he can, unable refusing) to lose this newfound need for closeness.

The angel change causes Noiz to push into him at a better movement, and Noiz’s change of stance has him pressing against that one spot that’s causing what seems like fire to spread through his blood, feeling every minute inch of Noiz’s dick slipping out of him, back inside, and he pants open-mouthed, jaw unhinged and unable to close, moving one arm from being pinned to his side out of Noiz’s grip to bend at the elbow to grasp at the arm around his chest as Aoba turns his head, finding his mouth close to Noiz’s ear where his head is resting against his shoulder.

Noiz thrusts quicker, faster, their bodies practically slamming into the other, the muted sounds of their clothes clashing together filling the spaces between their breaths, their pants growing higher, wet with high keens and moans. Aoba lets his head fall back, eyes clenched shit, panting openly, unable to keep his control as Noiz is fucking into his body so good, so fucking well, and he doesn’t let himself resist, he doesn’t let his body try to control itself in the midst of all these noises that erupt and spew from his mouth.

His chest is heavy, heavy with stress from trying to bring in more air to accommodate his body need for it, for his blood to travel to the right points of his body with it to keep it going. Aoba’s so fucking hard, he’s gonna come again, he can feel and he just needs for Noiz to move his hand—

“You can feel it, can’t you?” and it’s a shock to hear Noiz’s voice suddenly, so close to his ear where Aoba had forgotten just where his mouth was, “you’re gonna—” and the way Aoba tightens around him stutters that sentence a halt, a ragged breath coming in behind it before Noiz is able to resume, “you’re gonna—gonna come," a grunt that mingles with a moan, "just,” and he thrust up harder, faster, “like,” and another thrust, harder, nearly slams him against the counter, “ _this_.”

Aoba’s voice shatters inside his throat, the shards falling out his mouth to collect at his feet as he’s powerless to stop the influx of pleasure that assaults his body, slams against all the surfaces available. There’s also a dull roar inside his head, the sound of blood thrashing inside his skin, in his ears, all of it so out of control that Aoba is too helpless against to even think about doing something about it.

But then, there’s a sensation that feels all too familiar, and there’s a tug at his roots in that familiar way that Aoba opens his eyes, moving his head and looking at Noiz, trying to find what the source of this new feeling is (his body is so attuned to Noiz’s movements that is it any question that he would seek out Noiz?) and his eye land on Noiz’s, immediately directed to his mouth because there, ensnared between his lips is a lock of his own hair.

Aoba is floored by this so much that he doesn’t remember that no one is really supposed to touch his hair, even with the dulled senses it has taken on as of the last few months—however, there’s still enough feeling in his hair that he can still note that it’s there, but right now, in this moment, with it lodged between Noiz’s teeth, his lips molded over the strands, Aoba can’t stop him, his body too wound up.

The feeling isn’t painful—Noiz sucks on it, swiping his tongue against the strands in his mouth and Aoba’s mouth falls open, an uninhibited moan fall from his tongue as the feeling washes over him. The feeling of Noiz doing this to his hair, of the unexpectedness that it might feel anything but painful; it serves as almost the push, with every harsh suck to his strands, it nearly pushes him over.

Noiz isn’t going to last longer, maybe less than seven more thrusts as his orgasm is crouched at the base of his dick, his balls are drawing up, the sign that he’s about to come, he’s about to lose it, and he knows Aoba is close, and he makes it his mission to get Aoba to come as he is—he thrusts upward, harsh, holds his hips there, sucks on the strands of Aoba’s hair, pressing against Aoba’s prostate and _grinding_ his hips, and there’s this litany of, “god, god, god,” that comes whispered and tapers off into a soundless moan from Aoba.

Noiz does it again, thrusting up harder, putting so much force behind it that he lifts Aoba a small portion of the ground, grinding against Aoba’s prostate, his arms clenched around Aoba’s front, trying to get Aoba to come without being touched, to come when Noiz will, and with each of these deep, harsh thrusts, Aoba clenches around him so tightly, so fucking good that Noiz feels the next one he tries will put an end to his stamina.

But he does it again, thrusting in as far as he can, holding himself there, and Aoba’s body seizes up, dragging Noiz along with him and Aoba comes, and the tightness around Noiz’s dick pulls his orgasm from him.

It isn’t like his first orgasm, Aoba is sure of it, it isn’t as intense but it lasts longer than it his first one, sweeping away his body in this tidal wave that carries him far from the place of his body. It feels like it goes on, doesn’t stop, the tides continuing to wash over his body, submerged, and Aoba isn’t even aware that his voice is coming out unfiltered, isn’t aware of the sweat against his brow, or even the way Noiz’s arms tighten around him, or even Noiz’s mouth the bites into his neck, teeth imprinting almost dangerously into his skin.

It’s going to bruise, what a pesky thing Aoba would note if he were aware of the things outside his orgasm.

Aoba doesn’t come as much as he did the first time, nearly leaving him dry, and there’s not going to be too much of a mess to clean up against the cabinets that have some streaks of cum now running down their surface.

Noiz clenches his jaw, his arms so tight around Aoba’s body, sure he’s going to crush the other man, bruise his vulnerable organs, just crush everything but he’s not concerned with that, only the waves of pleasure that push to empty his body off all the pleasure that’s been pent up in his body for too long. His orgasm feels intense, almost too intense, as his whole world is consumed on that spot, darkness filling his mind and white static falling over his eyes.

Noiz finally begins to gain awareness, aware of his head pillowed against Aoba’s shoulder, how his body has collapsed against Aoba’s, the weight of his body now on top of Aoba’s back, forcing them to lean against the countertop. Noiz listens to the breath Aoba takes, trying to steady himself, and the quiet that settles in behind those breaths is this alluring rhythm that Noiz finds himself slipping into.

Noiz begins to shift, pulling back, noting his own body’s winded response. He begins the process of pulling from Aoba’s body, grimacing at Aoba makes a noise at him retreating, knowing it mustn’t be too pleasant for Aoba.

Instead, Noiz drops to his knees after he’s searched around for a cloth or a towel, something to begin cleaning them both up, but as he settles onto his knees, kitchen towel in his hand (he thinks about the look on Aoba’s look, the protest that they use that in the kitchen and not for their bodily messes after that kind of activity), he looks at the back of Aoba’s legs, the mess that’s been left there, and there’s something that crawls into the base of his brain as he studies the mess left behind.

His eyes catch on the streaks of cum that leak out of Aoba’s body and down his thighs, tilting his head, following the trails that lead down Aoba’s thighs, not having gone far due to it beginning to cool against Aoba’s skin. He looks up to Aoba’s hole, red and puffy from Noiz’s ministrations, looking at how languid his cum drips from Aoba’s hole, knowing there’s probably a little more still inside Aoba.

Instead, Noiz drops the towel, forgetting about it, becomes less important as he begins to bring his hands up to Aoba’s thighs, noting the small sound of something from Aoba, whether or not it’s from protesting or encouraging him, Noiz doesn’t know, but it becomes second to the thoughts that begin to spin inside his mind about wanting try something.

Noiz begins to drag his pointer finger against one of the trails of cum that has leaked down Aoba’s thigh, collecting it against his finger, watching the liquid well up against his finger, and he trails it to Aoba’s already used entrance and pushes his fingers inside, to which elicits a sound from the blue-haired male. Noiz looks feels how slick Aoba’s hole is, the combination of lube and cum making it an easy slide for his finger to move inside, hearing a light squelch of his finger meeting with the contents still inside.

Aoba’s hips twitch, moving away from the touch in their current heap of not being able to get a hold on their movements, looking feeble in its attempt to escape this overstimulation that’s taking place, that Aoba’s body is trying to avoid, but doesn’t have enough bearings to really do anything about.

Noiz slips his finger inside, feeling is loose, feeling how messy Aoba is inside, how fucking the blue-haired male is, and it’s fascinating to the blonde, twisting his fingers through the mess left behind, rotating them to feel what’s been left behind, and he notices the trembling of Aoba’s legs, wondering exactly how Aoba hasn’t fallen, how those legs, ever so unsteady, have kept him standing, how he hasn’t fallen down the counter to let his body rest on the floor below him.

Noiz gets a second finger inside, the ease of it due to the already-stretched muscles, rotating his wrist, spreading his fingers. The blonde watches in rapt fascination as the older man’s rim clenches weakly around his two fingers, trying to decide whether or not to reject his fingers or allow his fingers to continue. Noiz continues to push inside, his fingers moving until—there’s a choked off sob that pushes unto the open, nearly silent air of the apartment, weak in its fluctuation, not strong in intensity, bit it’s there nonetheless, and Noiz wants to keep predicting those sounds.

“Noiz,” is Aoba’s weakened voice, his teeth clenching around that sound, weak in their force meeting together, but more coherent than what his voice was minutes ago, “Noiz, I can’t—” and his voice severs again as his shoulder are trembling.

Noiz pushes down on that spot he’s found, rubbing his fingers over it again, and faster, quick flicks of his wrist speeding along the process of Aoba’s voice falling apart again. Noiz wants to see it, he wants to watch Aoba come again, and finding himself unable to resist that image seeing now that Aoba is at a breaking point, stretched beyond a certain point Noiz wants to see him fall passed.

“You can,” Noiz offers, finds it’s the only thing he can really even offer beyond his desire that’s beginning to build again, can feel the spark of interest starting at the base of his spine, his cock trying to gather enough arousal to begin coming back to life.

“I _can’t,_ ” is so roughened, desperate, Aoba’s voice choking against the dull pleasure that begins to deposit into his blood, his fists clenching, legs so dangerously close to giving out as they have been over the last few minutes, shoulders drawing up as another piece of dull pleasure slips across his stomach.

Noiz’s hand moves to Aoba’s leg, feeling the trembles, the unsteadiness, but he’s not deterred, only offering some kind of solace in his touches, gentle in their contact, but nonetheless, there in this moment of weakness and vulnerability that has fallen against Aoba’s body. He rubs at the sweaty, exposed skin, offering comfort as his fingers push and thrust inside, rubbing at Aoba’s prostate, trying to coax at least one more orgasm from Aoba’s body.

“I know you can,” is all that Noiz can really think of to help Aoba through it, “just one more. Come on, Aoba.”

Aoba doesn’t know if he can give another, if he can stand another orgasm coming through his system when he doesn’t have anything more to offer—he’s drained, he has nothing more and—

It’s there, however, against the Japanese man’s better judgement, there’s a that dull heat that’s been coasting so leisurely through his body, now amassing into the pit of his stomach, filling him steadily and surely he can’t do this again, he can’t _possibly_ even—

He’s gonna come again against his better judgement, Aoba can’t actually believe this but with every stroke of Noiz’s fingers, the upstroke against his prostate, pressing his fingers against it and holding his fingers there and pressing into it constantly, that heat suddenly expands, shoots up his veins and utterly _strangled_ sound erupts from his throat, his voice pitches high in its attempts to control itself but fails so spectacularly.

He can’t believe he’s actually coming again.

Noiz can feel the weak clench of Aoba’s body around his fingers, the way Aoba breathes is rapidly declining into no proper rhythm, there’s no breath that goes without some kind of stall in his lungs. Aoba cock twitches, giving out nothing, and Noiz knows that he’s wrung every piece of pleasure and feeling from Aoba’s body. And in response to Aoba’s body, his own body is trying to become more interested but Noiz knows that if he focuses enough, he can will away the arousal he’s feeling.

When Noiz retreats his fingers, it’s when Aoba’s body does gives out, his legs bending, falling down off the counter, collapsing in a heap of sweaty limbs and shaking muscles in front of Noiz, who moves to the collected flesh before him. Noiz moves to place himself beside Aoba, his hand seeking out the other’s face to curl his fingers under the other’s chin, turning the older man’s head toward his own, searching for recognition etched into the skin before him.

Aoba’s own hazel-colored eyes find his, glazed with the remnants of orgasm, and at first they’re unrecognizing, oblivious to all the surroundings that are around him until they blink, leaning into the touch before Aoba’s really aware of what he’s doing. Noiz lets his lips curl into this gentle smile, seeing all this open vulnerability displayed so openly on the older man’s face.

“Good afternoon, Aoba,” and Aoba laughs softly, still leaning into the touch.

“Now you tell me that.”

Noiz still lets his face mirror the gentleness that he’s allowing to be displayed so openly.

Aoba still looks at him, shaking his head, and softly does he say, “how was work—and don’t think I forgot about you leaving work early.”

“Was worth it,” Noiz counters, still finding it hard to care about his responsibilities because coming home to his more than attractive boyfriend and having mind-blowing sex in the kitchen is more than enough compensation for him after this week long sensory-deprived week.


End file.
